


temples and fragments of memories

by honeybakedtea



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Humor, Assassination Attempt(s), Dimilix Big Bang (Fire Emblem), M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27052207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybakedtea/pseuds/honeybakedtea
Summary: “Haven’t you worked it out?” When Dimitri shakes his head, Felix very nearly snarls. “Thanks to whatever magic you used—”“Magic doesn’t exist for me,” Dimitri protests again, but Felix barrels on anyway.“Thanks to your magic, we are without a king.” Felix’s face is grim. “And until we get him back—and if I find out that you are responsible, I won’t hesitate to slit your throat—we need a substitute.”One Dimitri takes the place of another. What could go wrong? (Written for the Dimilix Big Bang!)
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 28
Kudos: 93
Collections: Dimilix Big Bang





	1. in which pudding is not what it seems

**Author's Note:**

> this was written for the Dimilix Big Bang, which i absolutely loved taking part in! this fic was definitely a labour of love, and i'm v excited to finally be posting it. o/
> 
> i had the honour of collabing with [pigmi](https://twitter.com/hellopigmi) and [Bringmemisery](https://twitter.com/Bringmemisery) for this - keep an eye out for their wonderful art accompanying the fic! they were wonderful to work with, so go shower them w some love <3
> 
> also massive thanks to [min](https://twitter.com/yitamins) for being my lifesaver as always and reading this over for me. where would i be without her, honestly.
> 
> i hope you enjoy!

_ 13th of the Verdant Rain Moon, 1187 _

The banquet has only just begun, yet King Dimitri is already bored out of his mind.

He is seated at the head of the table, flanked by the members of his inner circle, so that he can peer out over the people in attendance. Most of the guests are visiting nobles, eager to gain the attention of their king, but upon Dimitri’s insistence, the general populace of the castle has also been invited, even if they are placed entirely separately from the nobility. It is the least he can do in return for their support as he attempts to maintain a stable continent.

Still, Dimitri is already tired, and the evening has barely begun. He is not looking forward to hours socialising and wrestling with clever wordplay; not when he already spent the better part of his day doing so while settling grievances on the throne. 

Dimitri wishes Felix were here to keep him company. He is doing work elsewhere, so is not attending, but it would have been nice to have him here all the same.

But someone who  _ is  _ attending is Sylvain, who is leaning forward to make conversation with some lady a few seats down. She is giggling, and he is sporting a charming smile. The full force of it is almost dizzying, Dimitri knows. It is Sylvain’s staple. 

Dimitri resists the urge to roll his eye, but then Sylvain is turning, and catching his gaze. Winks, and mouths something to him —

“Your Majesty.”

He nearly startles. A servant is bowing to him, platter in one hand. He lifts the lid to reveal a plate of pudding.

“Thank you,” Dimitri says, as the servant places the plate in front of him.

He manages to keep his voice even. Dimitri keeps his smile on him as the servant nods, and turns on his heel. Dimitri watches him disappear into the throng, before his eye flickers to the side.

Of course. Sylvain is hiding his mouth behind his fast, clearly shaking with laughter. Dimitri resists the urge to scowl at him, even good-naturedly, because they are in  _ public.  _ He will not let himself be riled up by Sylvain again; not after the last time.

Dimitri takes the fork carefully, and gently stabs it into the pudding. It wobbles. It is very nice. It would be nicer if he wasn’t so tired.

“Hey, Your Majesty,” Sylvain grins, sliding into the seat next to him. Never mind that the councilperson sitting there only left for a short break.

“Sylvain,” Dimitri says, sternly.

Sylvain raises his palms. “Don’t give me that look!” he says.  _ Still  _ laughing. “I didn’t know you could jump in your seat like that. I thought you were suffering from a bad back and creaky knees and all. The works.”

“I did not  _ jump,”  _ Dimitri grumbles. 

“Really? Want me to get Dedue to come check?”

Dimitri quickly stuffs some pudding in his mouth to avoid answering the question. (He  _ does  _ have a bad back. It’s not his fault.)

He realises that this pudding is  _ sweet,  _ because his tongue is tingling, pleasantly cool. Dimitri has almost forgotten what sweetness tasted like. It is a sensation he has not experienced since the war, when Flayn had graced him with her pies.

Dimitri pauses. He cannot taste, yet this is the most flavoursome dish he has had for a long time. The head chef must be trying a new recipe for him specifically, because if this is sweet enough for Dimitri, then it must be unbearable for the others. 

He makes a mental note to pay his compliments after dinner. He is touched, but there was no need to go to such lengths for him.

“Fancy pudding for the fancy king,” Sylvain comments, leaning over to look at his plate. Dimitri winces at how casual his posture is. Ingrid is already their way with a hint of exasperation, as if she means to march over and scold them for how inappropriately they are behaving. Or, more likely, to swipe Dimitri’s pudding for herself. “Mind if I swipe some?”

“Absolutely not,” Dimitri says, firmly. He inches his plate away from Sylvain’s wandering hands. “Eat your own pudding.”

“Aw, but they haven’t served me any yet!”

“Oh dear,” Dimitri says, face blank. “How incredibly sad. A tragedy, really.”

“Your Majesty, how could you be so cruel?” Sylvain whines, pressing his palm to his temple. He has always been so theatrical. “To one of your closest friends?”

Dimitri is trying desperately not to grin. Thank the stars for Sylvain, because he has always had an uncanny intuition for when his friends have needed him the most — even if it is just a desperate bid for casual conversation in the middle of a social function. 

And it is easier to tease, and be himself around Sylvain. He does not know what he would do without Sylvain. Stay high-strung until he snapped, probably, like some sort of sad puppet.

Unfortunately, Dimitri is snatched away from his momentary taste of freedom by an approaching nobleman. He swallows down the last of his pudding, and looks up to greet him.

“Your Majesty!” the noble says, beaming. Dimitri recognises him as Count Portian. A minor lord, red-haired with red face to match, and constantly jolly. Dimitri wonders how he does it, sometimes. “Might I have a moment of your time?”

Dimitri dips his head, and fights to share a glance with Sylvain — who is, predictably, staring at his plate with a hint of a grin. Leaving Dimitri to talk to this one all by himself. Traitor.

“Of course,” Dimitri says, before he braces himself.

This is how the evening progresses into night; as a neverending stream of conversation from one lord to the next, while the castle staff quietly finish their meals and resume their duties. Sylvain wanders off at some point, presumably to chat up some other lady, even though Dimitri almost begs him to stay and talk to him. (He does not, of course. It is incredibly aggravating. Sylvain always rescued them out of stuffy balls when they were children. Dimitri hardly sees the difference now.)

The live orchestra plays on, although Dimitri hardly has the time to appreciate their playing, because he is constantly in talks of some sort. And through it all, Felix is nowhere to be found. His duties must have kept him for longer than he had expected.

Once it nears midnight, the staff swoop in to clear the tables. Dimitri is incredibly relieved that the evening is finally beginning to end, although he takes great care not to show it.

It is only with a slight amount of guilt, then, that Dimitri excuses himself at the earliest opportunity, which is really not very early, and pays his compliments to the head chef before retiring for the night.

  
  
  
  
  


Felix catches him in the corridor to his quarters. Dimitri’s shoulders relax as soon as he sees the tail end of his cloak swish around the corner.

“Are you going to bed?” Felix asks him, arms are full of parchment. He looks especially lovely today, with his hair wound in an intricate bun at the back of his head. Mercedes must have done the braids.

Dimitri gives him a small smile. He allows himself to smile openly only when he realises that they are alone in the corridor.

“I am rather tired today,” Dimitri answers simply, tucking a stray lock of hair behind Felix’s ear. Felix huffs, and leans into his touch. An instinctive movement, Dimitri notes with some pride. “Where are  _ you  _ going?”

“That Count,” Felix grumbles. He breathes a sigh as Dimitri presses a palm against his cheek. “He’s up in arms about something. Again. I’m going down there to make him shut up.”

“Ah,” Dimitri frowns. “I apologise. I really should be there myself.”

His words wipe the fatigue off Felix’s face in an instant. It is almost like magic.

“No,” Felix snaps. “ _ You  _ are going to bed. I’ll deal with it.” He shuffles the scrolls, still bundled up in Dimitri’s space. It is rather adorable. “I’ll be coming back late, then. You’d better be asleep by the time I return.”

Dimitri smiles down at Felix. The hard look in his eyes is familiar, and usually, Dimitri would match his stubbornness with his own. He is far too drained right now, but there will always be the chance to creep awake and smooth things out tomorrow morning, as Felix slumbers on, entirely unaware.

For now, Dimitri complies, and presses a kiss to Felix’s hair. “Alright. Thank you, love.”

“It’s not as big of a deal as you make it out to be,” Felix grumbles, even as he pulls Dimitri forward and kisses him properly anyway. 

Felix lets his kiss linger, as he is wont to do when he is craving affection. Dimitri presses closer, smiles into his mouth as he places his hands on the nape of his neck. The scrolls are getting squashed, but Dimitri hardly cares - not when Felix is so warm, his hair smelling of mint.

It is funny. Felix has the uncanny ability to make him feel marginally better even when he is talking about high-strung, annoying councilmen, and Dimitri loves him for it.

Dimitri’s hands only manage to snake down to the small of Felix’s back before Felix is pulling away, clearly reluctant. Dimitri makes an unhappy noise, but it is understandable. The corridor is still empty, but it will not stay that way for long.

His mood has still been significantly lifted, so Dimitri chuckles. He already feels less tired than he did. Felix really is wonderful.

“You underestimate yourself, love,” Dimitri grins.

Felix pulls back. His face is soft, too, before it smooths out into something sterner.

“Get some sleep,” he tells Dimitri, bundling the flattened scrolls into his arms as he walks back. “ _ Don’t  _ start working again. I’ll know if you do.”

Dimitri gives him a little wave. He watches Felix until he can no longer hear his footsteps on the stone floor, before he begins the long trek to his own chambers.

  
  
  
  
  
  


As much as he wants to, Dimitri does not end up retiring to his bed. He finds himself in his study instead, despite knowing how angry Felix will be in the morning, because no matter the hour, there is always work to be done.

Even if his limbs ache and his head pounds, it seems. Felix will scold him later for not being in bed by the time he returns, but revising these documents in time for the morning will prove helpful in the long-term. He only needs to look over the most pressing ones, and then he will be able to finally go to bed. 

Dimitri feels strangely exhausted, even though he did not do much. The papers he reads over slowly begin to blend in with each other, and half an hour passes before he realises that the stack of documents on his desk has not diminished in the slightest, despite how quickly he is trying to work through them.

He sighs, and moves the candle out of the way. No one is watching him work, so he leans forward and rests his head on the desk.

It has been two years since the war finished, and everything is still static. Pushing for reform is frustratingly difficult; it sometimes feels like trying to fit a box into a round hole. Dedue and Mercedes are making admirable progress in Duscur, and Dimitri could not be more thankful, but here, at court, everything feels stagnant. Even though it shouldn’t be.

Dimitri himself feels stagnant. He is still tired, and there is still so much work to be done. Some days, it feels like he is doing nothing at all.

Perhaps it will be useful to take a break. Thoughts like these, Dimitri knows, are neither productive, nor useful. They tend to drag him down and make him spiral if he ruminates on them for long enough, leaving him moody and irritable. A menace for anyone who approaches him for days afterwards, and the shame he feels when he comes to himself is deafening.

Dimitri lets his eye close. It feels too heavy to keep open, almost as if someone is sitting on it. How funny that would be. Like something out of a children’s fairytale.

_ Five minutes,  _ Dimitri tells himself, before he yawns, and puts his head down.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Dimitri wakes like he is breaking the surface of water; gasping, shuddering and clawing for breath. 

He is lying down, head angled awkwardly so that his cheek is pressing against a cold, hard surface. It does not need a long time to realise that he is not supposed to be here.

Dimitri is on his feet within seconds. He has the war to thank for that; two years later and still he cannot sleep deeply, and always wakes in an instant.

Still a useful skill, it seems. 

The room he is currently standing in is… strange. The build of it is unfamiliar, with shiny white floors and bench-like structures pressed right against the walls. Moonlight filters its way in through a small, square window to illuminate a deep hole in one of the benches, and Dimitri realises it is a basin of some sort. The metal rod jutting out of it is one he hasn’t seen before, however. 

Cupboards cover the entire upper wall, and the wooden table on his right has a strange box on top of it. Upon closer inspection, Dimitri finds that there is strange lettering on the face of it. ‘Crunchy’, and then something underneath that is too dark to read. It’s a strange font, too, one he has never seen in his life.

Has he been kidnapped? It is plausible, but Dimitri quickly banishes the thought. Who would kidnap the King of Fódlan without putting him in chains? If he truly were being held, Dimitri would not have woken up unbound, much less have enough space to move around freely.

He is still in his sleeping garments, and the dagger under his pillow had been left where he checked it last night. So he is entirely unarmed.

Dimitri wills himself to breathe.

Perhaps this is a particularly vivid nightmare. Dimitri is not unused to those, so it is a viable explanation. Or perhaps it is one of those magical dreams that he will have to climb out of by himself, like the ones Annette was trying to emulate for herself. Perhaps he is supposed to lie down and wait for sleep to claim him again, or something as equally bizarre —

“Dimitri?”

Dimitri stills. His head calms in an instant at the sound of that voice, and the rush of relief that follows is like a tidal wave. There is only one person whose voice has that effect on him.

“Felix?” Dimitri breathes, as Felix pads into the room, rubbing at his eyes.

Felix is barely suppressing a yawn, hair sleep-mussed and lips chapped. Dimitri feels his heart swell at the sight.

However, Felix is also dressed strangely. He is wearing sleeping garments that Dimitri has never seen him in before, made out of thicker material, and with an odd crisscross pattern. His hair is down, too — still lovely, but Dimitri does not remember it being that short. Perhaps it is a trick of the darkness, or perhaps Felix cut it before the banquet.

But then Dimitri would have seen him with that short hair when he met him afterwards. Felix could not have possibly wound his hair into that bun, either, if he cut it short.

Dimitri squints at Felix, unsure. Felix ignores his staring entirely, and reaches up to touch the wall.

Suddenly they are illuminated with the brightest, whitest light Dimitri has ever seen. Instinctively, he shields his eye.

“Why are you up so early,” Felix mumbles, as if this is all normal. Dimitri lowers his hands. He is incredibly confused. “And what the hell are you wearing?”

“I could ask the same of you, my love,” Dimitri says, slowly. “Where… are we, exactly?”

The words have scarcely left his lips before Felix is hacking a violent cough. Dimitri takes a hasty step back, because Felix looks as if someone slapped him. His eyes are huge, and his mouth is parted incredulously. 

“What did you just call me?” Felix sputters. His cheeks are quickly darkening to a pretty cherry colour.

Dimitri blinks. He had thought… 

“I thought you were not averse to the name?” Dimitri asks. “I do not mind if your feelings have changed.”

Even as he says it, Dimitri cannot help but feel crushed. Felix had been amicable with the pet name only a few nights ago, so for him to suddenly feel otherwise… 

Still, if he decides he does not like it any longer, Dimitri will respect his wishes.

“Of course I’m fucking  _ averse to the name,”  _ Felix seethes. This takes Dimitri completely by surprise, because Felix looks as if he detests the name, rather than just disliking it. “Why would you even — when did you — “

Felix stops himself halfway through the sentence, seemingly incapable of coherent speech, and sits on the nearby chair instead. He is still staring at Dimitri indignantly.

Dimitri stares back. He tries to resist wringing his hands, but fails spectacularly.

“I am sorry, Felix,” he says, eventually. “I had no idea you felt so strongly. You should have told me you didn’t like it.” 

He moves forward and takes Felix’s hand. Rubs a soothing thumb over the back of it, in the way he knows Felix likes to be comforted. “I would not have minded, if you had told me,” Dimitri says, giving him a small smile.

Felix stiffens like a statue, and snatches his hand away. “What is  _ wrong _ with you?” he snaps.

Dimitri frowns. He withdraws his hand hesitantly, because it is not like Felix to be  _ this  _ averse to his touch. 

“Are you… all right, Felix? Did I do something wrong?”

The hurt in his voice is clear, though he tries to mask it. Their relationship is not new, but… if there is a rift between them again, Dimitri would like to know, this time.

Felix grimaces.  _ “You’re _ the one who’s acting odd. Do I need to call a doctor?”

Dimitri blinks. “Of course not! There is no need.” Despite the reassurance, Felix grimaces again, and for one fleeting moment Dimitri wishes he could read his mind. “Felix, please just tell me. What is going on? Where are we?”

“What do you mean,  _ where are we? _ “

Again, Felix is incredulous. He is gaping at Dimitri like a goldfish, even though he himself seems perfectly content with the surroundings. Lounging in the chair as if he belongs there, whereas Dimitri sits ramrod straight against the unfamiliar back of the seat.

Dimitri squints at Felix again. Then, he glances out of the window.

The glass is startlingly clear, so he has no trouble seeing the buildings. They are impossibly tall and narrow, with twinkling lights dotting their surfaces. There is not a single star visible in the sky, either. Dimitri has never seen anything like it before - not even during the war, where they battled in nearly every corner of the continent. 

“We are not in the Old Kingdom,” Dimitri realises, finally.

“What Kingdom?” Felix snarls. “You’re not making any sense!”

Dimitri looks at Felix, hoping beyond hope that this is just a joke. It must be, although what possessed Felix to make a joke like this, Dimitri will never know.

But Felix does not break into laughter. He only stares back, defiant and angry. 

“The... Holy Kingdom of Faerghus?” Dimitri says, slowly. “The one where we grew up? The one I am currently king of?”

Felix’s lips move soundlessly, mouthing Dimitri’s words back at him.

Then, he gets up, and stalks into the darkness of the hallway.

“Felix?”

Dimitri rushes to follow — this unknown territory could be  _ dangerous _ _ — _ but Felix is already hurrying back.

“You sit there,” Felix says, gruffly. He pulls out a sleek black box from his pocket. It is thin, and lights up when Felix presses it. “I’m calling the hospital.”

“What? No, love, there is no need — “ and call with what? Felix is surely not getting ready to go outside —

No. Instead he is making a choked noise again. Dimitri feels equally guilty and mortified. 

“Apologies, Felix. There is no need to call anyone. Please, just tell me what is going on? What is that, at least?”

He points at the box in Felix’s hand. The light is gone, and the box lies dark in Felix’s hand.

“What do you  _ mean,  _ ‘what’s going on’?” Felix looks like he is seconds away from stamping his foot. “Nothing is ‘going on’. You’re acting weird, that’s all.” He glares at Dimitri, and Dimitri suppresses the urge to recoil. That glare never means anything good. “Did you even go to sleep tonight? Is that why you’re acting weird?”

“Well, of course I slept,” Dimitri says. Felix gives him a look, and Dimitri sighs. “Not at my bed, however. There was some outstanding work I had to finish.” 

For a moment, Felix looks thunderous. Dimitri prepares himself for an onslaught of rage, but to his surprise, Felix restrains himself and breathes out, apparently deciding against a lecture. 

_ “What _ work?” he demands.

“... The new project for Countess Vere?” Dimitri says, slowly. 

Felix narrows his eyes. “The  _ what.” _

Dimitri is dumbstruck, because Felix  _ knows _ the project. He had helped Dimitri devise it, and then had helped revise it, terribly angry, when the Countess had thrown up a storm about something or the other. If it were not for his aid, the project would not exist.

For him to completely forget about it...

“Dimitri,” Felix interrupts, tersely. “What’s the date today?”

“Why are you asking me this?” Dimitri groans. His head is beginning to pound. “Felix, what is going on?”

“Just answer!”

Dimitri feels ridiculous. He wants  _ answers,  _ not the date. “The 13th of the Verdant Rain Moon,” he says, and watches as Felix only responds with a scoff. “Felix, please.”

“What the hell is a Verdant Rain Moon?” Felix snaps. “What’s going on with you?”

Dimitri frowns. “Felix, this is getting ridiculous. Is this one of Sylvain’s pranks? If so, it is getting rather out of hand - ”

“Sylvain’s not even in the country!” Felix snarls. “It’s August, remember? He’s got that business conference coming up.”

Business conference? As far as Dimitri is aware, Sylvain has never been interested in being a merchant.

Besides, Dimitri saw Sylvain only last night. He had talked with him, laughed and joked with him. There is no way he could have left Fhirdiad so quickly, and he would have notified Dimitri before he did.

Dimitri is utterly confused..

“Felix. Sylvain was at the banquet,” Dimitri tries, keeping his voice steady, despite feeling a strong headache coming on. Nothing is making  _ sense.  _ “I saw him not even three hours ago. Are you  _ sure  _ you’re feeling alright?” 

He pauses. “And what is August?”

Felix looks crazed, all of a sudden. Like he has reached his breaking point. “August! August, the fucking  _ month.” _

Dimitri shakes his head, slowly. Felix’s eyes are so wide now that he is afraid they will pop out if he does not calm down.

“Felix,” he says, bewildered. “I have never heard of August in my life.”

Perhaps Felix is learning about different customs, even though he has not mentioned anything of the sort to Dimitri before. But Dimitri has not heard of this month in his life, and Felix is not one to spend time studying history, so it is unlikely. But if that is not the case...

“What year is it.” Felix interrupts, stabbing a finger into Dimitri’s chest.

Dimitri takes a step back. Felix’s questions are becoming wilder by the minute, as if he cannot believe his eyes. Dimitri does not blame him, because as each second passes, he is starting to believe that this is not  _ his  _ Felix.

Even if that should not be possible.

“... 1187,” Dimitri says, rather carefully, because Felix looks as if he is about to explode. 

He is right to think so, because Felix starts to laugh. Not out of amusement, but in disbelief, because he sounds part derisive and part hysterical. 

“Felix?”

“No. No, it’s not,” Felix laughs, between his wheezing. “It’s 2020.”

Dimitri feels his blood chill. He has never even thought of that date before, let alone envision it — or worse, exist in its timeframe, as this Felix is suggesting.

Something is terribly wrong.

“... 2020?” Dimitri cannot wrap his head around the idea. “That cannot be.”

Felix laughs, and laughs, and then points towards something behind Dimitri. It is a calendar, pinned to a tall, metal box. 

Dimitri blinks, and blinks again. It might be a trick of the eye, a product of his mind, but… the calendar does say 2020. And while it still might be an elaborate trick… every other piece of decoration in the room matches the style of it.

  1. _2020._ Dimitri can hardly believe it. 



“What…?” His mouth drops open, mirroring Felix’s just moments ago. “Surely there has been a mistake.”

Felix’s jaw is stiff. “There’s no mistake.” He crosses his arms, and scrutinises Dimitri again, as if he cannot quite believe what he is hearing. “Is this your idea of a joke? Because I’m tired of it now.”

Dimitri sighs, exasperated. “You think I would joke about this, Felix?”

No. No, this cannot be his Felix, because the Felix he knows does not joke so lightly. His Felix would not lengthen a joke to such proportions, either, nor would he drag him to a strange building to do so.

But if this is not his Felix, and not his kingdom…

“Then get up,” Felix orders, interrupting him. He grabs a bunch of keys from the tabletop. “We’re going to the hospital.”


	2. in which Dimitri learns how to use a kettle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art in this chapter is by [pigmi!](https://twitter.com/hellopigmi)

_13th August, 2020_

Felix is _this_ close to opening the door and bodily throwing himself out onto the road, moving car be damned.

He doesn’t know where to begin. Some part of his mind tells him that a good starting point would be how tightly Dimitri is clutching the seat in front of him. His expression is borderline horrified—as if he thinks the car is going to crash any minute, despite being strapped in with a seatbelt already. (Which _Felix_ had to strap in for him, ignoring the taxi driver’s strange look, because apparently Dimitri has forgotten how seatbelts work.)

Given his deranged spiel in the morning, and the way he is staring out of the window with a glazed expression, he probably has.

Felix grinds his teeth.

He had even taken him to the emergency room to sort this out. Dimitri had been silent for most of it, happy enough with spending his time gawking at everything they passed by. Felix had caught him staring at the vending machine for six minutes before he could kick his shin and snap him out of it.

He was acting so fucking _weird._ A lady had dropped her file in the corridor, and Dimitri had sprung up immediately to hand it back to her. Afterwards, he had bowed. _Bowed._

_What the hell,_ Felix had first thought, before dragging him down, and concluding that Dimitri had lost his mind.

Felix was afraid, after that. Afraid that Dimitri had done something in the night, or that something had happened to him. A concussion, perhaps. The fear of that unknown left Felix with sweaty palms and burning eyes, and he had refused to look at Dimitri until the doctor called them, no matter how longingly Dimitri stared at the vending machine.

To make matters worse, the doctor was nearly useless.

"Dimitri?" she had asked, in that gentle way one uses with vulnerable people. Dimitri had looked shell shocked, as if his own name was alien to him. Felix had only scowled. "Well, Dimitri. What seems to be the problem this morning?"

"He's spouting nonsense," Felix cut in, ignoring the strange look the doctor gave him. "And he’s forgetting things. He doesn't know the date, or the month." 

And he had called Felix— 

Felix scowled, and promptly dismissed that thought. "I think he hit his head," he explained, gesturing stiffly at Dimitri’s face.

Here, Dimitri had interjected. "I have not," he said, turning his smile on the doctor. Felix wanted to shake him. "My head feels perfectly fine."

Felix glared at Dimitri, who smiled at the doctor. The doctor kept giving the both of them strange looks. 

“Trust me,” Felix said stubbornly. “I know what I’m saying.”

“Hmm,” the doctor said, moving to face Dimitri. “Well, how about I take a look at you, and we can move from there? It’s better to determine the cause of a head injury early on if you do have one, so we can start treatment earlier if needed.”

And that was that, because the doctor had found nothing. Fucking _nothing,_ even though she supposedly checked Dimitri’s reaction time and memory. By making him recite back a lengthening list of numbers and letters she had read out. And by making him do simple addition.

“Really, I am fine,” he had repeated, staring intently at her computer afterwards. “There is no need to be so concerned.”

The doctor had smiled, then. Declared that Dimitri seemed healthy enough, and if he started to feel worse, he should return to the emergency room and see if he needed a scan. When Felix demanded more information, she only gave him a grave look. And even worse, so had Dimitri. As if Felix was the one with a brain injury, who needed to be _scolded_ like an idiot.

That was half an hour ago. Now, Dimitri’s staring out of the window. He looks starstruck, like a _child_ going on their first car trip, even though the set of his shoulders is strangely tense.

“Lovely weather today, isn’t it?” the taxi driver whistles, oblivious to the tension stewing in the air behind him. 

Felix gives a noncommittal grunt. Dimitri, on the other hand, jerks in his seat. He’s clutching his seatbelt, now, holding on to it like a lifeline.

“Oh, yes. Of course. It is a beautiful day,” he says distracted. His smile is strained, but also… excited. Or desperate. Felix has no fucking clue what he’s thinking.

Soon, Dimitri manages to pry his fingers away from the seatbelt, and moves to clutching his knees. The urge to say something, to scowl and berate him for how he’s acting, is _strong._

But Felix remembers Dimitri’s words from earlier, when he had found him in the kitchen, bleary-eyed. _My love._ A slip of the tongue, apparently.

Felix feels his cheeks redden, and fights the urge to rub the blush away.

  
  
  


Felix slams the apartment door shut the minute Dimitri gets over the threshold. 

“Right,” he snarls. He wants to throw something, because he has just wasted an entire morning for _nothing,_ and Dimitri is still looking at the TV remote like he has never seen it before in his life. “What’s going on with you? First, you blather on about some fantasy kingdom—“

“It is not a fantasy,” Dimitri interrupts, tearing his gaze away from the remote. “The Holy Kingdom of Faerghus—or United Fódlan, now—is real, I assure you.” 

Forget it. Felix _will_ scream. He wants to scream so loudly that maybe, just maybe, it’ll rattle Dimitri’s head enough so that he’ll start making sense again.

Forcefully, Felix exhales.

“Where are you even coming up with this?” he demands. “Is it Sylvain?” 

If it’s Sylvain, and it probably is, Felix will have no problem ringing him up right now and making good on his promise to skin him alive for wasting so much of his time.

“Felix, I have already told you,” Dimitri tries. His tone is gentle, now, in a way Felix rarely hears it, and it makes him want to jump out of skin. “It _is_ real. I do not come from here.”

Incredible. Felix throws up his hands. “Can you even _hear_ yourself right now?” he snaps.

Dimitri looks up at that, and Felix scrutinises his face for any sign of humour. He does this primarily because Dimitri is famously terrible at keeping a straight face when making a joke.

This time, he looks perfectly serious.

“Yes. I can. And I know I must sound mad,” here, Dimitri pauses, “but please, listen to me.”

He starts to pace the length of the floor, staring off into the distance with odd intent. “I am not from this world. I am sure of it,” Dimitri begins, quieter now that Felix is silent. Absently, he strokes his left arm with his right. “I cannot be, anyway. There is no way it could be possible, unless this is all an elaborate dream.”

“No, it’s not a dream,” Felix grits out. “Why the hell have you suddenly gotten it into your head that you’re not from here?” A sudden thought strikes him, and sinks in the pit of his stomach like a heavy stone. “Have your nightmares returned?”

Dimitri’s never slept too well, not since he was fourteen, but the medication and the therapy and the numerous methods he had tried for uninterrupted sleep had helped, somewhat. But if the nightmares have returned, despite how good things have been lately… 

“No,” Dimitri cuts in, rubbing his arm. “Well, perhaps not entirely, but—” He pauses. “I cannot be from here, Felix. Everything is so _different,_ here—so unfamiliar. I have never ridden in one of those carriages before in my life—“

“The car,” Felix says, loud and incredulous. “The _fucking car.”_

“—and I have never been in a hospital so—“ Dimitri waves his hands about as his eye lights up, “— _advanced,_ before.” He lowers his hands, and gives Felix a small smile; one that doesn’t feel quite right. “The doctor used an instrument which showed me my _temperature.”_

“Yes,” Felix grits out. “That’s usually what thermometers do _.”_

“I did not know it was possible,” Dimitri says. He sounds so earnest, and so awestruck. 

Felix drags a hand down his face. What the _hell._

Even Dimitri wouldn’t continue a charade like this for so long. Hell, he physically wouldn’t have been able to keep up with a charade like this for so long.

But the alternative is actually _believing_ this—Not-Dimitri. The rational, smarter part of Felix is screaming at him to see reason. He wants to say that not a single ounce of his body wants to actually believe him, but…

Maybe. Maybe if he goes along with it, he’ll get some answers.

“Fine. I’ll entertain you,” Felix says, carefully. He moves over to the nearest chair, which happens to be Dimitri’s favourite, and sits in it.” So… what. You’re telling me that you’re not Dimitri?”

“I _am_ Dimitri,” Not-Dimitri says. “But I am not _your_ Dimitri.” 

Felix curls his lip. What a clear explanation.

Not-Dimitri looks uncertain. Felix scowls at him, and is promptly ignored. 

“I assume that there is a Dimitri in this world?” he asks.

“Why wouldn’t there be— _what?”_

Now that Felix has had a chance to look at Dimitri properly, under the morning light of a proper window, he can clearly see his entire profile. And unless his mind is playing tricks on him, Dimitri’s—or Not-Dimitri’s?—hair has grown a little. Just a bit, so that it reaches the bottom of his shoulder-blades, rather than simply brushing past the nape of his neck.

Felix frowns. That isn’t just a little—it’s a lot. He’s not so unobservant that he wouldn’t notice Dimitri growing out his hair. Which could, theoretically, mean that the man in front of him isn’t just spouting nonsense.

The air grows tense. Felix remembers the honey-blond shade of Dimitri’s hair, how soft it is, and his hands curl into fists. 

“What do you mean, _my_ Dimitri?” Felix snaps. 

None of this is making sense. Why isn't any of this making _sense?_

“The Felix I know bears similarities to you, but there are subtle differences,” Dimitri counters. His voice is clearer, now. It carries, echoing around the room heavily. “Your ears are pierced, for example. His ears are not.”

Felix grinds his teeth. He doesn’t fucking _understand._ Dimitri keeps telling him different things; half of them seem like the ramblings of a madman, but the other half...

“Say I believed you.” Felix straightens up in his chair, and crosses his arms. He cannot believe he is saying this. “Then why are you here?

Dimitri lifts his chin, and meets his gaze head-on. Momentarily, Felix thinks he is blinded, because his gaze is _intense._

“I told you already—I do not know,” Dimitri says. He turns to look out of the window. “But I cannot die here. I must return home. There is too much left for me to accomplish.”

Felix scoffs. How dramatic of this Dimitri, thinking he’ll die here. 

He stops, and catches himself. ‘ _This’_ Dimitri. He called him ‘this’ Dimitri, as if there’s a clear distinction between this Dimitri and the one he knows.

_Dammit._

Felix desperately doesn’t want to believe him, but everything he’s saying and everything he’s seeing is adding up. The Dimitri in front of him speaks far too formally than the Dimitri he knows. There is a low, authoritative cadence to his voice that he’s never heard before, and the way he holds himself is straighter. More commanding. Natural, even.

The Dimitri he knows speaks formally, but not to that degree. His steps are slower, too. Less measured. 

Felix narrows his eyes. 

“If you’re not the Dimitri I know,” he says, slowly. “Then where is he?”

For a beat, Dimitri is silent. He is still gazing out of the window. Felix stares at his back, and grits his teeth.

Finally, Dimitri turns around. He looks apologetic, now, and it makes the blood roar in Felix’s ears.

“... You won’t like what I am going to say next,” Dimitri says. He shakes his head - slowly, as if that in itself takes effort. “In all honesty, I have no idea.”

It takes a second for Felix to cross the room, grab Dimitri by his tunic, and shove him against the wall.

“What the _fuck?”_ Felix snarls. Dimitri’s head knocks against the wallpaper, but he doesn’t even flinch. “What do you mean, _you don’t know?”_

Dimitri is unfazed. Felix is breathing heavily. It would be so easy, _so_ easy, to knock this guy’s teeth out, but—

“I am sorry, Felix, but I know no more than you do.” Dimitri speaks slowly, measured. He places one hand on Felix’s arm, placating. “I fell asleep at my desk last night. That is the last thing I remember.” 

Felix is still breathing heavily. His head aches, but Dimitri’s words are low, almost soothing.

“Then, the next thing I knew, I was lying on your floor—” Dimitri gently removes Felix’s grip from his shirt, and places his hands at his sides, “—but nothing looked familiar to me.”

He straightens. Felix, against his better judgement, lets him. “Nothing does, still.”

Felix’s hands are still balled into fists, and the man’s face is so close. The thought of his Dimitri out there somewhere, wandering, _gone_ _—_

“If you’re lying to me—!”

“I am not,” the man? Not-Dimitri? says firmly.

Felix snarls, again. “How do we get him back?” he demands, refusing to look at Dimitri and instead making his way to his bedroom. 

Dimitri’s voice is quiet, now. Hesitant. “I’m not sure about your Dimitri, but I admit that I am not the most proficient with magic,” he confesses. Felix grinds his teeth, and forces himself to refrain from yanking the door handle and locking himself in his room. “Perhaps we could start by finding a skilled mage to discuss the situation?”

The door handle rattles, stubborn. Felix glares at it.

He is so fucking _tired._

“Magic?” Felix says, flatly. He is still staring at the door, away from that Dimitri. “Hah. Don’t tell me you think magic exists, too.”

A silence follows. It is very telling.

Felix closes his eyes, and lets his forehead rest against the wood.

“Ah,” Dimitri says, faintly, from behind him. “... I see.”

Felix slams the door shut on his way out.

  
  
  


Not-Dimitri is inspecting his apartment.

Felix is fuming up at the ceiling from his place on the sofa, and Dimitri the Imposter is _inspecting his apartment._

“What is this, Felix?” Dimitri asks curiously. 

Felix cranes his neck, and watches as Dimitri peers at the kettle. He taps it, once, and then apparently takes that as the cue to lift the entire thing out of its base. 

Felix scowls, and turns his gaze back on the ceiling.

“It’s a kettle,” he grits out, as Dimitri hurriedly places it back in its holder.

Felix exhales, angry again. The real Dimitri is apparently out there, _missing,_ and Felix is stuck here with some—medieval version of him.

“Oh,” Dimitri says, utterly oblivious. He’s returned to gently staring at the kettle, as if it’s suddenly sprouted legs and is walking across the kitchen counter. “This is very different from the kettles we have back in Fódlan.” 

Felix hears the patter of footsteps. Suddenly, Dimitri is looming over him. “Do you not have a fireplace to heat it?”

“What?”

“The kettle,” Dimitri explains, patiently. “I have not seen a fireplace in your home, Felix. How do you usually heat this kettle?”

Instead of answering, Felix stares at the eyepatch. He has never known Dimitri to wear an eyepatch like that. The ones he wears are standard hospital-issue: white, with tiny pinpricks in the centre.

He is still angry. Rageful. Magic doesn’t _exist,_ and Felix would be stupid to believe it, even though his trying to convince him otherwise.

“With electricity,” he says, instead.

“... What is that?”

Felix closes his eyes. He refuses to deal with this.

Dimitri is still waiting when Felix opens them again. 

Felix scowls. Then, he fumbles in his pocket for his phone, and types in ‘what is electricity’ in Google. The page only gives him a load of scientific bullshit he hasn’t had to look at since he was in school.

Dimitri is staring at the phone too, eye wide. Felix decides to toss it onto the sofa.

“Felix?” Dimitri asks, as Felix finally hauls himself up into a sitting position.

“Instead of asking about _kettles,”_ he starts, rolling his arms in their sockets, “why aren’t we looking for a way to get Dimitri back?”

For a moment, the Dimitri in front of him balks. His face cycles through a series of expressions, before finally settling on that same apologetic look he wore before.

Felix grinds his teeth. 

“Right. Of course,” Dimitri says. His face is solemn and polite again. For some reason, it makes Felix angry, even though this Dimitri is doing what Felix is asking for once. 

He ignores that train of thought, and instead voices something that’s been bugging him since the chat in the kitchen. “Why are you so unbothered by all this?”

“Unbothered?” Dimitri repeats. He has the gall to look _surprised._ “I am not unbothered, Felix. Quite the opposite.” Now, he smiles. It’s a small thing, tentative and hopeful. “However, one of us has to be the calm one, no?”

Felix tenses. “What?”

Dimitri’s expression smooths out again. The smile is gone as quickly as it came. “I’m sorry. I suppose I just became… overwhelmed.” Dimitri takes a seat on the chair opposite the sofa, and waits for Felix to glare at him again before he continues. “The truth is, I am at a loss. This is all so new. I barely understand how I got here, let alone where I am.” 

Felix forces himself to count to ten. When that doesn’t work, he barrels on with what he was going to say anyway.

“Don’t you have any idea?” he snaps. “You can’t just know _nothing._ You’re the one who got yourself here.”

Dimitri opens his mouth. He closes it just as quickly, before giving a hesitant shrug. “Time travel?” he suggests, before sobering at the look on Felix’s face. “Or—perhaps not. 

Felix throws his hands in the air, and makes an exasperated sound. 

“You’re not making any sense,” he says. “Again.”

Felix doesn’t care for time-travel, or whatever this Dimitri thinks is a feasible reason why he ended up here. If this Dimitri thinks he landed here because of some accident, then—fine. He doesn’t care. It’ll matter only when the actual Dimitri returns again.

Fuck. Where _is_ Dimitri? Felix has no idea—the last time Felix had seen Dimitri was when he was texting someone in bed. If he’s gotten himself into trouble… 

Felix closes his eyes. Wills himself to calm down.

“I suppose it _would_ sound like rubbish to you,” says Not-Dimitri, breaking the silence. His voice is soft for a moment, but when Felix cracks his eyes open, he looks perfectly normal. “Other than that, though, I’m afraid I don’t have many ideas.”

Felix’s blood grows cold. “So, what. You’re just going to give up?” he demands. His voice is rising, higher than normal, but he doesn’t care.

There is _no way_ that this Dimitri doesn’t know what to do next. Felix’s palms feel wet when he clasps his hands together, and it takes all his effort not to lash out again, because the idea of Dimitri — the Dimitri _he_ knows—not coming back—

Fuck. _Fuck._ Felix stops thinking. He’s overreacting again, and being able to realise it usually means that this is the prime time to stop.

Dimitri’s head snaps up. “No! Of course not,” he says, urgently. He reaches a hand out towards Felix, as if meaning to touch him, but when Felix jerks away, his hand falls just as quickly. “I am trying to think of a place to start, but I am coming up short.”

“What was the last thing you remember?”

“Falling asleep at my desk, as I told you earlier,” Dimitri replies, promptly. He interlaces his fingers, and leans forwards a little in his chair. “Then, when I woke up, I was here.”

Felix exhales. His heart sinks, to the pits of his stomach. “Nothing else?”

Slowly, Dimitri shakes his head.

“And you really have no idea where Dimitri’s gone,” Felix says. It’s not a question, but his voice falls halfway through anyway, and cracks, embarrassingly. Felix stares off to the side, and refuses to look at Dimitri’s face, at the pity that is probably written on there.

The silence speaks volumes.

“I really am sorry, Felix,” Dimitri says, softly, into the silence of the apartment. 

_Don’t call me that,_ Felix wants to snarl. If this man is the reason why Dimitri’s missing, then he has no right to call him that.

But the truth, Felix somehow knows—even in the midst of this boiling anger—is that this Dimitri is probably innocent. He wears Dimitri’s face, and has most of Dimitri’s mannerisms; from the way he peers at foreign objects, to the way he lowers himself into a chair. When Felix had worked himself into a rage-induced panic, he had known exactly what to do to calm him down—as if he’d done it before. 

Felix _wants_ to kick him out of the house and demand where he’s keeping the real Dimitri, but if he did that, he’d have no leads left. And part of Felix still wants to rage at him, but most of him finds it stupidly difficult.

Staying angry at Dimitri is stupidly difficult. Even if this isn’t the right one.

Felix wants to scream. 

Luckily for his neighbours, he doesn’t get the opportunity. Out of nowhere, Dimitri yawns, and claps a hand over his mouth to stifle it. Felix watches the motion. The yawn sounds exactly like he remembers it.

“Are you tired?” Felix asks, abruptly.

“Felix—” Dimitri starts, before his eye scrunches up. “No,” he insists, automatically, before covering another yawn.

Felix narrows his eyes. This is something he can deal with, at least. “Don’t lie to me. I can see it easily.” 

He climbs to his feet, thankful for the opportunity to move again.

“Felix?”

Felix ignores Dimitri, and stalks into the hallway. Dimitri follows him anyway, the patter of his footsteps thudding loudly against the wooden floor. When Felix turns to face him, he is still as solemn as ever, but the dark circle under his eye looks even more pronounced, like black crescent moons. _The perks of hallway lighting,_ Felix thinks grimly.

“... I suppose you can take the guest room,” he says, eventually. The guest room is collecting dust like a skeleton, but that’s a problem he can deal with tomorrow.

“There is no need,” Dimitri tries to protest, even though his eyes are drooping. Felix has no idea why he’s gotten so tired so quickly, but the signs are there. He knows them like the back of his hand. “You are right—I must get home, first. I have no idea… how I got distracted like that…” 

Fucking hell. Dimitri is nodding off on his feet. 

He yawns, again, and Felix has to haul him upright. He’s still in his tunic and smells of an odd perfume, and Felix makes a note to get him fresh clothes tomorrow. He’ll stand out like a sore thumb if he goes about like this.

“This one?” Dimitri mutters, making his way to the doorway closest to him.

Felix stiffens. “No,” he snaps. 

That’s Dimitri’s room. If he lets that Dimitri use it, Felix is bound to get confused. To start thinking they’re the same.

What is _wrong_ with him. This Dimitri might be gone in the morning. Maybe this is just a stupid nightmare—in which case, Felix wants the creator of it to kindly fuck off.

The Dimitri in front of him recoils. For a moment, he looks entirely awake, worrying his lip.

“Apologies,” he mumbles. “This one?”

He gets the right room this time. Felix curtly nods his assent, and watches as Dimitri enters the darkness of the room, dropping immediately onto the bed. Felix waits until he can hear the snores before he closes the door behind him.

Then, he sits down, and draws a hand over his face.

This is a nightmare. Just a nightmare. Not-Dimitri will be gone by tomorrow morning. Felix is sure of it.

* * *

_???_

Dimitri wakes slowly. His bed is incredibly warm; the furs envelop his body like a cocoon, and the bedding is so soft he nearly sinks into it. For the first time in years, Dimitri finds it an effort to open his eye, and willingly drag himself out to greet the day.

But drag himself out he must. Someone has to do the shopping, and Felix kindly told him that it would not be him, this time.

Reluctantly, Dimitri cracks his eye open. He blinks through the murky haze of sleep, and spends a minute staring at the furs. They really are very soft.

The furs. The… furs, which he has no recollection of ever bringing to his bedroom.

Dimitri jolts awake. His heart pounds, thudding so loudly he can hear it in his ears.

This is not his bedroom. He is in an unfamiliar bed, surrounded by unfamiliar walls, where the sunlight is pouring through an unfamiliar window, and this is decidedly _not_ his bedroom.

Four of his own bedrooms could easily fit in this room, with space to spare. The bed itself is a double four-poster, framed by thick blue curtains, and at the far end of the room, there is a coffee table with a bowl of dark green apples. There are two doors on opposite walls, and a fireplace flickers gently next to the fluffy white rug.

By all accounts, this is a very nice room. It is a far cry from his own bedroom, which is sparsely decorated and, as Lysithea puts it, a sad imitation of current minimalist trends. However, Dimitri has no idea where he is, and the panic is already threatening to claw its way out of his body when three sharp raps sound on the door to the right.

His phone is in his front pocket. He does not have his eyepatch. Dimitri fumbles, but someone is nudging their way in, boot first, and there is no _time_ for him to do anything— 

The door creaks as it shudders open, and Dimitri reflexively hauls the covers up. 

And then Dimitri is sorely embarrassed, because the mystery person staring at him from the doorway is Felix. Felix, who is wearing his trademark unimpressed scowl, and is looking at Dimitri as if he forgot to eat dinner again.

Dimitri lets himself breathe. It is fine. Felix is here.

“... You’re awake,” says Felix. He has a cup of steaming tea in hand. Dimitri nods, and sinks back into the covers in relief. 

He still has no idea where he is, but hopefully Felix will be able to explain this elaborate charade. 

Felix strides to his bedside. Dimitri smiles up at him as he approaches, still confused, and considers the possibility of amnesia. _But that would not explain why I remember Felix so clearly,_ Dimitri muses, as Felix bends down and presses a kiss to his forehead—

_What._

Dimitri stiffens. His face heats until it is hot enough to fry eggs on, and suddenly, words are impossible to form.

“Felix!” Dimitri shouts. It comes out as a squeak, and he nearly topples off the bed in his shock. Felix catches his arm in time to right him, and Dimitri, still tangled in the blanket, is left staring up at the other man.

He has no idea what just happened, but Felix… 

With a rush of clarity, Dimitri realises that the Felix standing in front of him is— _different._ At first glance, he could be a carbon copy of the Felix he is familiar with, high cheekbones and all, but some features are decidedly _different,_ and Dimitri has no idea how he did not recognise it before.

To begin with, he is wearing a navy blue tunic which drops to his thighs—an outfit Dimitri has never seen him wear in all their years of friendship. His black trousers are tucked into heeled boots, and snow-white fur lines his collar and his wrists. The fur also rings his teal cloak, which falls around his frame until it is brushing the floor, and his hair is _long,_ definitely longer than Dimitri had seen it last. It is braided down one shoulder, tied off at the end with a silver ribbon.

The last time Dimitri had seen Felix, he had been wearing a hoodie and sweatpants. This new ensemble is… rather bizarre. 

Dimitri’s cheeks are still hot. He does not know what to say.

Felix watches him, mouth parted. He only moves when Dimitri stirs, opening and closing his mouth, like a demented fish.

“What’s wrong?” he snaps. He is still as curt as Dimitri has always known him to be, but he seems almost defensive, now. Nervous, even.

Felix being defensive is not a new development. But _that_ display of affection—Dimitri grows hot again—is.

Felix has _never_ done that. He would never _do_ that if this was real. Thinking about the motion, about the way he had let his lips brush Dimitri’s forehead, and how he had cradled his cheek with one gloved hand, is enough to make Dimitri’s mind turn blank, like white noise. So he stops thinking about it.

“Nothing,” Dimitri lies. This is clearly a dream. A particularly lucid one, yes, but he is not unaccustomed to those, so it is fine. “I’m just a bit tired. That’s all.”

Felix gives him a searching look. For a moment, Dimitri wrenches his mind away from the question of how to _wake up,_ and studies Felix’s face. 

“Hmm,” Felix muses. His expression is tense, until suddenly it smooths out to something much more pointed. “I wonder why.”

There is an accusation there, somewhere. Dimitri is probably supposed to answer it. Instead, he laughs, awkwardly, and makes a vague gesture with his hands.

It must be the wrong answer, because Felix narrows his eyes again.

“What’s _with_ you today,” he grumbles. “I leave you alone for one night, and this happens.” He circles around the bed, so that he is staring down at Dimitri, arms crossed. “The next time you fall asleep at your desk, I’m leaving you there.”

Felix is so _stern._ Dimitri wonders the context of this strange dream. Then again, if this really is a dream, he doubts that anything he says will have any lasting consequences. 

“Of course, Felix,” Dimitri says, hurriedly.

Felix gives him a searching look. Dimitri’s discomfort only grows under that unflinching gaze, and he finds himself thankful when Felix looks away.

It would really be excellent if he could go back to sleep. He has work tomorrow, and it is important. 

But his mind rarely works in his favour.

“Drink your tea,” Felix says, eventually. He shrugs off his cloak, and drops it into the armchair in front of the fireplace. “It’s a new blend that Dedue sent this morning. He wants to know if it helps with the headaches.”

Tiredly, Dimitri nods his assent. The covers slip down his front as he reaches out a hand for the cup. Perhaps simply going along with his head will do him good for once. Or maybe this imaginary tea will soothe him back to sleep.

Dimitri takes a sip as Felix sits on the edge of the bed. The tea certainly seems real enough as it goes down, even though there is no taste.

Eventually, the silence between them grows long, in that awkward way when one has nothing to say. “It’s good,” Dimitri says, haltingly.

Felix nods once. The motion is sharp and decisive. “How does it taste?” he asks, with that same flat tone.

Dimitri has no idea. “It’s very nice,” he shrugs. The tea is not helping him drift off, after all, which is a shame. He has never been aware of a dream for this long.

Half of him worries Felix will suddenly transform into a nightmare in front of him. He grips the blankets.

“Really?” Felix says. He is smiling, now, in that catlike way Dimitri is so familiar with. “I’ll know if you’re lying.” Here, he uncrosses his arms, and rests them loosely in his lap. “And you know that I don’t take kindly to liars.”

Felix tone drops when he says this. It is low and dangerous, and Dimitri nearly thinks that the nightmare is about to unfold any minute. 

Then, Felix barks a laugh. Dimitri almost jumps.

“Felix!” he exclaims. His stomach still feels queasy. Dimitri wills it to stop being so bothersome. “You scared me for a moment.”

“Good,” Felix answers, voice smug. Dimitri laughs, relieved. 

It occurs to him that Felix sounds far too real for this to be a dream. Perhaps it is an elaborate prank, although he has no idea why Felix would play a prank like this—especially when there is nothing to celebrate.

Dimitri is opening his mouth to ask, when suddenly there is a flurry of movement. His eye widens, and he tries to scramble out of the covers, but something strong holds him down.

He looks up at Felix, mind reeling. The warmth has slipped from the other man’s face. Felix’s expression is utterly cold, now, as he holds down Dimitri until his bones feel like they might snap under his grip.

“I don’t take kindly to imposters, either,” Felix growls. The knife poised at Dimitri’s throat is utterly still.


	3. in which Dimitri befriends the prison rats

_ 14th August, 2020 _

When Felix wakes up, the first thing he does is check the guest room. The sight that greets him when he yanks back the covers isn’t entirely unexpected. Felix wishes it was.

The wrong Dimitri is exactly where Felix had left him last night. He is still dressed in that simple white tunic and black slacks, and those strange scars still litter his face. His unfamiliar black eyepatch is lying on the dresser.

Dimitri wakes sleepily. “Felix... ?” he mumbles, and Felix’s heart jerks as Dimitri turns onto his side, patting the other end of the bed. “What time is it?”

“... You’re still here,” Felix says, instead. 

That gets Dimitri’s attention. Slowly, he cracks an eye open, and stares at Felix for a long moment. 

Felix studies his face. The long, silvery scar on his cheek looks ancient. 

“Oh. Hello, Felix,” Dimitri says, once he’s blinked away the last vestiges of sleep. ‘Felix’ is said awkwardly, like he doesn’t know how to roll the syllables around his mouth. It’s nothing like the fond way he had said it before. “Yes. It appears that I am still here.”

Dimitri still looks tired. Felix isn’t surprised — the mattress in the guest room is annoyingly creaky, and dips if the person sleeps too heavily on one side. 

Still, it’s better than watching him sleep in Dimitri’s room.

Felix sighs. “Get up. You stink. Go have a shower before breakfast.” Dimitri doesn’t actually smell, but Felix wants some time to think without him being so -  _ present.  _ He can’t think when Dimitri gives him that familiar look.

Felix pauses. “You... do know how to use a shower, right?”

Dimitri blinks at him, owl-like. “I know how to use a bathtub, if that is what you are asking.”

Felix stares at him. Dimitri only stares back, holding his gaze until he pulls away. Of course a king from an ‘old’ continent wouldn’t have showers. Of course.

Felix takes a moment to stare at the ceiling, before he sighs, and moves to pull out fresh clothes from the wardrobe. The first decent thing he finds is a maroon button down shirt and black trousers.

Dimitri’s clothes. They should fit, but… 

“Here,” he says, gruffly. Fake Dimitri — he should stop with the prefixes, it only makes his head hurt — takes it, and stands there with the bundle in his hands. Waiting. Expectant.

It’s a good thing this mess started on a Friday, because it means that Felix doesn’t have to go to work, and leave this Dimitri to his devices in the apartment. He won’t have to call in for actual Dimitri, either, because he only just graduated. The only thing he’s preparing for is taking over his father’s work.

Felix touches a hand to his temple.  _ Fuck.  _ He had forgotten about that. He has no either whether Dimitri was due for another briefing, or another meeting to sit in on.

He takes one more look at the Dimitri in front of him, still in his ancient white tunic and kingly posture, looking as out of place as a duck in a desert, and gives up the idea entirely, He’ll just have to deal with that when it comes.

Felix spends the next half an hour guiding Dimitri through the steps of showering. Dimitri’s mouth is parted in a perfect circle the entire time, and Felix half-wishes he could shove the bar of soap in there to try and get him to look normal again. When Felix demonstrates how to adjust the heat, Dimitri is actually grinning a little — as if the thought of hot running water pleases him that much.

When Dimitri reaches out a hand to touch the tap, he immediately recoils.

“Idiot,” Felix scolds. “It’s hot.”

Dimitri finally steps into the shower when he’s done reading the instructions on the back of the shampoo bottle. As he showers, Felix takes the time to get breakfast ready.

The sounds of splashing water are oddly soothing, even if the occupant is a complete stranger. Felix usually hates strangers in their apartment, so being so relaxed around one is… weird. He doesn’t like it.

There’s no doubt, now — this Dimitri is real, and is here to stay. For how long, Felix doesn’t know, but as he grabs the cereal box, he can’t help but grimace. 

His Dimitri is  _ not  _ here. The thought makes his stomach clench. The Dimitri that is meant to be here is not here, and Felix wants to jump out of the window and start looking for him right now. Except he can’t, because that Dimitri is using the shower. The shower that the normal Dimitri would’ve used, had he been here.

Felix slams the milk down on the counter.  _ Fucking hell.  _ This is so complicated, and he hates it. He can’t even get the amount of Dimitris right in his head. There should only be  _ one.  _ Damnit.

Later, Dimitri emerges from the shower, bright-eyed and dressed in the clothes Felix gave him. They hang looser on him than they do on their usual owner, despite his large frame. Felix narrows his eyes.

“That was wonderful, Felix. Thank you,” Dimitri says, unaware of Felix’s staring. Is he seriously thanking him for a  _ shower?  _ “I have never seen water flow so freely like that - at the touch of a button, no less.” Here, Dimitri looks around for a place to put his towel. ”I believe the newer cities in the southern regions have basins, and Almyra has utilised a far more advanced system of running water for years, so there really is no excuse for Fódlan to be so behind.”

Felix snatches the towel and tosses it towards the laundry bin. “How do you usually shower, then?”

“Oh. We don’t,” Dimitri answers, immediately looking sheepish. “We heat hot water and use a tub.” He gives an embarrassed smile. “It’s quite the laborious process.”

Huh. Who knew that kings bathed so simply.

“Do you have any idea where Dimitri might be yet?” Felix asks, as soon as Dimitri sits down.

Dimitri’s expression changes. “Not yet,” he says, and now he looks apologetic all over again.

It was worth a shot. 

Felix forces his leg to stop fidgeting. He’s lost track of how many times he’s thought this, in a panicked frenzy: that Dimitri is still not here. He could be anywhere, but he is not  _ here.  _

Why this couldn’t be a bad dream is beyond him, but Felix gathers up the panic thrashing in his head, and channels it into a neat box, tucked away when he can deal with it properly. Or not deal with it. Something like that.

He’ll find Dimitri. He has to. There is no other option.

Felix grits his teeth, and passes over the Crunchy Nut box. 

“What is this?” Dimitri asks. He turns over the box in his hands, peering intently at the crossword at the back.

“Cereal,” says Felix, around a mouthful. Dimitri wrinkles his nose at him, and Felix flips him off. 

Dimitri goes back to staring at the crossword, and Felix remembers that he’s probably never seen cereal before. For some reason, it irritates him. Why did he have to be a king from years into some alternate past? Why couldn’t he be some futuristic modern one? Leave it to a Dimitri to make things stupidly complicated for everyone else. 

“You eat it with milk,” Felix clarifies, before swallowing.

“I see,” says Dimitri, before: “Felix, what flies in the air and is used to transport people? Wyvern does not fit.”

_ Wyverns.  _ Felix can ask about that later. 

He grabs the milk and pours it into a bowl, before sticking it into the microwave. Dimitri is silent, still intently peering at the crossword. This is telling; normal Dimitri would never have passed up the chance to tell Felix that his way of eating cereal is ‘wrong’ (to him, anyway. Felix thinks only idiots put their cereal before their milk. Dimitri does it to spite him, because he is insufferable.)

This Dimitri does nothing of the sort. Felix watches him carefully from behind his own bowl, so he gets a full view of Dimitri’s first reaction to Crunchy Nut — or, the lack of reaction. 

Dimitri usually likes Crunchy Nut. He says that he enjoys how sweet it is. This Dimitri chewing through it as if it’s a chore is… bothersome.

“Do you not like it?” Felix grunts.

“Of course. It is flavoursome,” Dimitri replies. He takes the time to chew properly, before clearing his throat. “I have never had anything like it before.” He looks at Felix, inquisitive. “Did you… make it?”

Felix nearly chokes on his cereal. “Of course not,” he says. How the hell would he make  _ cereal. _

“I see,” Dimitri says, and leaves it at that.

Huh. Dimitri says it’s flavoursome, yet he still chews it like he’s a machine. Felix is experienced in peeking through Dimitri’s many faces, and this one — the veneer of masked politeness — is no different. 

Maybe Dimitri is accustomed to richer breakfasts. Maybe the cereal pales in comparison to whatever food he eats in his special palace.

It’s none of Felix’s concern. As long as Dimitri eats, he’s fine with how he looks.

“Felix,” Dimitri says, suddenly. Felix looks up, cereal spoon still stuck in his mouth.

Then, Dimitri says something that makes Felix swallow his mouthful faster than light. “About your question earlier… I think I may have an idea.”

* * *

_??? _

“Felix!” a familiar voice shouts. “What are you doing?!”

If Dimitri could, he would look up to confirm the owner of that voice. It’s one that he heard only yesterday, over the phone, and it sounds very, very real. 

Instead he does nothing of the sort, because the side of his face is being shoved against the floor. Two guards who jumped out from seemingly nowhere are tying his hands behind his back with a cord that cuts into his flesh. A flash of metal, and weapons dig into his skin. Daring him to move. 

The line where Felix’s knife had pressed into his throat still stings.

“It’s not him,” Felix growls from behind him. His foot is planted in Dimitri’s back, relentlessly pressing him down, and the press against Dimitri’s old scars _aches_. He remembers how his phone is in his front pyjama pocket, probably being squashed against the stone. “Dimitri’s _gone._ He—” here Felix presses the boot _harder,_ and Dimitri fights back a scream, “—is an imposter.”

Dimitri has no idea what is going on. One minute he was in the bed, and the other he was being tossed to the floor, with Felix looming over him like a predator. His face had been furious, and all Dimitri knows is that it  _ hurts. _

Ingrid — because it must be Ingrid, with that familiar voice — steps forward. From this viewpoint, Dimitri can only see the steeled toes of her boots.

“How can you be sure?” she asks, voice high with anger. Dimitri has heard her like that only once; when he had spoken to her about Glenn, and she had lost her temper with him.

“I  _ know  _ him!” Felix shouts. The boot on his back fumbles. “Listen to me, Ingrid. I only had to speak with him for five minutes before I figured it out.”

Ingrid slows to a stop. There is a silence, in which Dimitri becomes aware of every point of contact the spears make with his body, and how he can feel the press of cold steel over his thin pyjamas. 

Then, Ingrid speaks again. “Fine. I’ll believe you. But you had better explain everything afterwards, Felix.” 

Her voice holds a challenge. Dimitri’s cheeks are smarting, and he has no time to wonder about it, before she whirls on him.

He turns his eye upwards, and meets a sight he has never imagined in all his life.

Ingrid is staring down at him, but like Felix, she is  _ different.  _ Her hair is cropped as short as he knows it, but she is decked out in what he can only describe as knight’s armour. There is a steel lance in her hand, which sharpens to a frightening point. Dimitri had only ever known Ingrid in flannels and slacks, so this cold, cutting version of Ingrid is jarring. Especially when he cannot even get up to look her in the eye.

If Felix had looked strange, Ingrid looks even stranger. Dimitri does not know what to do.

“You,” she blazes, and her voice is bursting with righteous anger. “Traitor! What have you done with His Majesty?”

_ His Majesty? _

“You’re making a mistake,” Dimitri rasps. 

The boot digs into his back before he can even finish the sentence. Felix is utterly silent behind him.

“How dare you use his face for your lies,” Ingrid says, coldly. Her boots clack against the floor as she strides forward. “The consequences will be dire if you don’t reveal your schemes.  _ Now. _ ”

Ingrid is scaring him. Dimitri’s throat burns; speaking is too difficult.

He realises belatedly that he really, genuinely cannot speak.

“Refusing to talk, are we?”

Ingrid’s voice is getting louder. Dimitri’s head is starting to pound, and everything else is beginning to grey at the edges.

“No,” Dimitri struggles. “I don’t know where he is.” He doesn’t know  _ who  _ this king is, but he is beginning to feel only resentment for him. Dimitri swallows. “Please, let me go.”

Felix scoffs behind him. Dimitri’s heart plummets to the floor, and sinks under the stone.

“Ingrid.” Felix sounds disgusted. “Leave him to me.”

“What? Felix, no,” Ingrid protests. “You can’t deal with this on your own again.”

“Watch me,” Felix snarls.

The pressure on Dimitri’s back rises, and he can’t help the whimper that slips from his mouth. It  _ hurts.  _ Saints, does it hurt.

The spears graze against his skin in warning. Felix only growls above him.

In the end, it is Ingrid who makes the final decision. “No, Felix. You promised,” she says, tone adamant, before turning to address the guards.“Take him to the dungeons. And prepare a search party for His Majesty immediately.”

Somehow, Dimitri gains the energy to lift his head. It must be because of Ingrid’s damning words, but finally, _ finally,  _ his voice starts to work again, sputtering into existence as the guards haul him up. They are not gentle, and Dimitri winces. When he is shoved around, he finds that Felix is staring at him.

“Wait!” Dimitri cries. He looks Felix directly in the eyes. Felix’s gaze is unflinching and his face impassive, in the way Dimitri knows to mean he is enraged. “You’ve made a mistake.” He tries to breathe, but he only manages to wheeze. “I don’t know where I am. Please — “

“Traitor” one of the guards snarls, as he shoves him forward, none too gently. “You know damn well what you’re doing.”

Dimitri takes one last look at Felix. Felix’s mouth is turned down, and his eyes are narrowed. Dimitri’s last pleas turn to ash on his tongue.

They drag him out of that fancy room, while Felix watches. He doesn’t intervene, even when Dimitri calls after him, voice hoarse and on the verge of cracking. Ingrid gives him a look of pure hatred before she stalks off, and Dimitri feels tears well up from pure frustration.

When they finally shove him into a jail cell, the only thing Dimitri remembers is that Felix’s eyes had been unusually bright in that room. Then, the door slams shut, and he is left in darkness.

* * *

“Go on,” Felix says, heart thudding.

Dimitri puts down his spoon. “Up until now, we have been assuming that the Dimitri of this world has been displaced,” he says, slowly. “However, I was wondering… could it not be that he was simply transported to my time, instead?” 

Felix stops.  _ Transported to his time? _

So Dimitri is suggesting that, instead of his Dimitri being thrown into who knows where, he’s stuck in that fantasy kingdom instead. The idea is more comforting than believing Dimitri to be floating in a void somewhere. It puts his whereabouts in a neat box that Felix can compartmentalise. Something that he can try to understand. Especially with the man in front of him being someone he could just ask, if Felix really wanted to.

The thought is comforting, but it still feels like a block of lead in his chest.

“Do you have any proof?” Felix asks.

“None at all,” Dimitri admits, because  _ of course  _ he wouldn’t have any. Felix wants to stab him. “It is only a thought. I have seen skilled mages Warp other people, but I have never seen someone swap two people entirely, let alone across different time periods.”

Warp? Felix has no idea what that means.

“However,” Dimitri continues, “it is certainly not an impossibility.” He rubs his chin, lip pursed. “Which brings me to my point. There are some in Fódlan who have access to extraordinary technology. The automata they control is similar to some of the things I have seen here, actually, if only to a smaller scale.” Dimitri’s gaze turns dark, momentarily. “I have only known them to use their skills for evil, so it would not be surprising if they had a hand in all of this.”

Felix stares at him. Dimitri seems so solemn and burdened. It’s been some time since he’s seen that particular expression.

“It is just a theory, anyway,” Dimitri finishes. “Many factions are looking to stir up instability in the continent for some reason or the other, but that group is the one we have been hunting for the longest time yet.”

_ Hunting down groups.  _ This is a topic that would interest Sylvain to no end, if he was the one sitting here instead of Felix. As it is, Felix can hardly muster the energy to be anything less than slightly surprised, because there is a far bigger concern that is currently eating at him.

“Okay, fine,” he acquiesces, reluctantly. “If he’s really there, what will happen to him?”

“Hm. I suppose it would depend,” Dimitri muses. “The people are incredibly smart. There is no doubt that they would realise immediately that something is wrong.”

“And?” Felix says impatiently. “He’ll be fine, right?”

He sounds pathetic, even to his own ears. Like he’s begging for something the man in front of him couldn’t possibly give him. 

Still. Felix is willing to swallow down his pride and ask, if only for this moment.

“I would hope so,” Dimitri says, and with this, the weight is already feeling lighter in Felix’s gut. “There is no reason for him not to be. They might even think he has a head injury, like you did.” He chuckles here, and Felix almost rolls his eyes, feeling almost giddy with relief.

The feeling lasts until Dimitri abruptly stops laughing. His eye goes wide. “Unless — oh no.”

“What?” Felix snaps. Not  _ again.  _ Dimitri has that look that makes Felix want to punch a wall, and he might just get up and do it because of how wound up he’s starting to feel again. 

Dimitri groans.“Felix — Felix will not take it well,” he mumbles, staring at the opposite wall. “Or Dedue. Or Ingrid.”

Hearing his name and the names of his friends said so differently is a shock in itself, but when Dimitri’s words start to sink in, a panic bubbles underneath Felix’s skin. Felix wants to shake him, but his fingers are feeling slippery again. 

“Start making sense. What do you  _ mean?” _

Dimitri grimaces. “They might… jump to conclusions.”

_ “What  _ conclusions?”

There is a silence, where Felix fumes, and Dimitri only worries his lip. Eventually, he speaks up. “How similar does your Dimitri look to me?”

“Fucking hell — what do you  _ mean?” _

“I mean — “ Dimitri starts, before everything begins to tumble out like a raging current, “that something similar has happened before.” He turns to face Felix head-on, the look in his eye regretful. “I did not go missing, but an imposter did infiltrate the castle grounds while I was away, once, posing as me. He made quite the mess before he was found out.” 

_ “And?”  _ Felix hates how his voice trembles.

Dimitri closes his eye. “He was dealt with severely. It was inevitable — he tried to uproot everything we had been working for. But surely the others wouldn’t be so rash… “

“What do you mean,  _ severely?” _

Dimitri is silent. His face is twisted into a grimace.

Then, he opens his mouth. Says something hurried and dismayed, before apologising immediately.

Felix barely hears it before he screams, and lunges for him over the table.

* * *

There are rats scurrying across the floor. Periodically, they sniff at the plate of food left for him, before they scamper into the darkness again. It is telling that even the vermin won’t touch the food, but Dimitri is grateful that the guards at least had the decency to hand him cutlery.

The cell he is crouching in is rotting from the inside. How humbling, that Dimitri is not even important enough of a prisoner to warrant a nice cell. The water drips through the crack in the bricks to form stagnant puddles on the floor, the haystack in the corner smells, and cockroaches squirm about in the corner. And, although he has cutlery, the porridge is not at all tempting. 

All in all, the conditions he is in are appalling.

_ At least there is a bench,  _ Dimitri thinks grimly, before he reaches for the fork again.

  
  
  
  


Some time later — Dimitri has long since lost count — he hears a patter of footsteps coming down the hallway. Without warning, the door slams open, and Dimitri shrinks back instinctively as light floods into the room.

When he is finally able to lower his hands from his eyes, he realises, dully, that he is still in his pyjamas. His terrible, tacky penguin pyjamas — the only ones that were not in the wash or the laundry bin last night. 

How long ago it seems now that he was happily looking for pyjamas.

“Huh,” says another familiar voice. Dimitri’s breathing quickens. “So you’re the one masquerading as His Majesty this time.”

Dimitri whips up. Sure enough, there’s Sylvain, standing tall and sure with the same, ever-familiar fiery red hair. Like Ingrid, however, he is also fitted in knight’s armour, with teal and red accents. The beginnings of a beard frame his chin. He looks older and more lined than the Sylvain that Dimitri knows.

“Sylvain,” Dimitri breathes. He does not know what to say, so he stays in his crouched position, with Sylvain looming over him from the other end of the bars.

Sylvain raises an eyebrow. One hand rests lightly on his hips. “Well. You’ve clearly done your research.” He strides forward, smile ever-present on his face, and adds, coolly, “Margrave Gautier, by the way.”

Dimitri is chained both by the ankle and wrist to the wall around him. He cannot move, and to make things even worse, his phone is also out of reach. He cannot call for help, his back hurts, and caricatures of his friends are keeping him in jail and referring to him as if he is a monster. His throat is tight, as if someone has forced it between a pair of pliers and is squeezing it there.

This is not a nightmare. This is more like a physical hell.

“You’re skilled with magic, aren’t you,” Sylvain continues, waving a hand towards him. “That glamour! Wow. I haven’t seen a disguise as thorough as that one in a long time. You even tricked the Duke Fraldarius for a while.” He laughs, and the sound reverberates hollowly around the stone walls. “There’s something to boast about.”

Dimitri tries to clear his throat. He feels like someone took a cheesegrater to it. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Sylvain sighs. The sound is hardly sad — it sounds more as if Sylvain is mildly inconvenienced than truly sympathetic. “Listen. I’m trying to make this easier for you,” he says, voice low. “It’s all well and good pretending you don’t know anything, but that won’t work on the Duke. I’m giving you an easy way out, here.” His eyes glint. “Tell me what you’ve done to His Majesty, and I might find a way to lighten your sentence.”

His sentencing?

“Please. I have no idea where I  _ am,”  _ Dimitri protests. Sylvain stares at him, eyes blank, and he hurries to continue. “Sylvain. You must believe me. I’m not trying to kill your king. I just want to go home.”

Sylvain stares at him as Dimitri struggles to his feet. It is a useless endeavour; the chains are too short to allow him to stand to his full height, and he nearly topples over from his efforts. Dimitri ends up stumbling to the floor, suppressing a swear as a stone piece catches his foot.

Desperately, he catches Sylvain’s eyes. They are still blank. Unyielding.

Then, Sylvain sighs. “Suit yourself,” he shrugs. “Don’t blame me when you get caught up in Felix’s warpath.”

Dimitri closes his eye. 

This is unimaginably cruel. Only in his worst nightmares, the ones he finds himself sinking in like quicksand, is there ever a version of Sylvain who looks at him as coldly as this one is doing. Dimitri has no idea how to turn from it, not when Sylvain is glaring at him like the scum of the earth.

He still has no idea where he is. In this world, whether it is a dream or not, Felix is apparently a Duke. Sylvain is a Margrave, and they are in a castle of sorts, where everyone Dimitri knows and loves is either a knight or a noble. His back still aches, as does his throat, and his stomach. He wants to go  _ home. _

Sylvain crouches in front of him. “How come you won’t eat?” he asks, voice curious.

Dimitri has  _ tried.  _ But his gut aches, and he can’t even taste the bloody thing.

“I have tried,” he admits, dully. “I can’t keep it down.”

“Hm,” Sylvain says, looking down at it. Even he must understand how unappetising it looks. “Well. I can hardly get the prison guard to give you something different.” Or not. Dimitri grits his teeth. “Maybe if you tell me your plans, I can sneak you something more palatable.”

Sylvain’s grin is lazy, now. Dimitri feels his temper rise, though he tries to press it down. “I have told you already,” he snaps. “I don’t know what’s going on. I just  _ appeared _ here. I have no other explanation.”

Sylvain cocks his head, and considers. For a moment, Dimitri hopes.

Then, Sylvain sighs. Rises to his feet, dismissive, and Dimitri’s tentative hopes crumble to dust.

“You really are making this harder on yourself,” Sylvain comments with damning finality, and it is without even a backwards glance that he turns to leave.

“Sylvain!” Dimitri shouts. He wants to grip the bars, but the chains won’t allow him. “ _ Sylvain!” _

Sylvain stops. For a moment Dimitri thinks he will stay there, in the middle of the hallway, but then he is turning around, and walking back to the cell.

Sylvain stares at him through the bars. “You’d really use his face to try and manipulate me like that?” he says, quietly. “You sink lower than I would’ve expected.” He straightens up, and bares his teeth. Utterly cold. “Disgusting.” 

He stalks off, each step ringing hard against the stone floor. Dimitri’s hopes disappear along with him.


	4. in which Dimitri has a bad time

_??? _

Hours later, Dimitri is still chained in his cell. A guard has come and gone, bringing him a bowl of gruel, this time - as though it is any better than the porridge he had eaten before. The texture of it is slimy, and the food is essentially cubes of meat floating in water. What is worse is that Dimitri’s throat threatens to tear itself into shreds whenever he swallows, but he supposes that he has to deal with it.

Ever since Sylvain had left him, Dimitri has not bothered to track the time. There is no good way to do it, either; he has one tiny window in his cell, and it is so high up and so thoroughly covered in fine mesh that light barely filters through it anyway. 

Still, Dimitri does not think he could track the time even if he wanted to. His mind is too tired for him to give it a proper go.

It is a surprise, then, when the cheery voice humming down the corridor parts the fuzziness in his head as easily as swiping a lantern through fog. 

Annette.  _ Annette.  _

Dimitri rouses. His head hurts, still, and his breathing is laboured, but it is  _ Annette. _

“C’mon, Felix!” Annette says. From here, her voice is faint, yet the warmth it spreads in Dimitri is unbearably real. “Lighten up. We’ll find His Majesty in no time.”

His Majesty this, His Majesty that. After the wonderful time he has spent alone in his cell, with only the bite of Sylvain’s parting words for company, Dimitri has worked out that ‘His Majesty’ must be his mirror in this world. Even if it sounds utterly ridiculous.

Hah. King Dimitri. How strange. He never thought he’d be a fitting king in any capacity, but… he supposes that if he is meant to take up his father’s mantle in his own home, it shouldn't be surprising that the equivalent to that in an ancient setting is equally as grand.

“Annette,” Felix sighs. His voice sounds smaller, somehow. Tired, and nothing like the way he had been when crumpling Dimitri under his boot earlier.

“Don’t look so down,” Annette says, soothingly. She sounds anxious, too. “He’s strong. Stronger than all of us, even. I’m sure he’s fine.”

There is a pause, followed by a thumping sound. Dimitri slows his breathing.

“Hmm,” Felix says. His voice is so faint that Dimitri has to crane his neck and tug at the chains to hear it. “Alright. Thank you, Annette.” Felix coughs. “For coming so quickly.”

“Of course,” Annette says. Dimitri is sure that she must be smiling, even patting his back. Annette is simply like that, and she is the one of the only ones Felix allows to comfort him like this.

The next words are said haltingly, after a lengthy pause. “Have you — you know. Talked with him yet?”

“The imposter?” Felix scoffs. The venom in his voice is palpable. “Not yet. I’m saving him for last.”

Dimitri shrinks back. The chains clink together, barely making any noise, but loud enough to his own ears. __

_ Imposter.  _ Felix sounds like he wants to kill him.

“Felix…” Annette’s voice is despairing.

“Sylvain’s talked with him already. He says he got nothing.”

Another pause. Then:

“Let me try,” Annette says, determinedly.

“What? No,” Felix protests. Anger colours his voice —t he familiar protective anger that Felix favours with her. “He could be dangerous.”

Annette huffs. Dimitri imagines her to be puffing up. If she is in any way similar to the Annette he knows, she is probably trying to make herself seem taller by rocking back on the balls of her feet. 

“I’m dangerous, too,” she protests. “Besides, I have Crusher with me. Just in case he tries anything.”

“Crusher?”  _ Crusher?  _ Dimitri thinks, joining in Felix’s confusion, but he is quickly left in the dust when Felix barks out a short laugh. “Of course. Never change, Annette.” 

Even Felix’s laugh sounds wrung out. The Dimitri of this world — King Dimitri’s — disappearance must be weighing on him considerably. 

Dimitri’s head starts to throb again. He hopes, fervently and selfishly, that his Felix is faring better than the one he is about to face.

“It’s settled, then. I’ll be back,” Annette decides. A pair of footsteps tap along the stone floor, nimble and sure. Dimitri’s palms, even though they are rough and cracked with moisture, begin to sweat.

“Wait,” Felix interjects. A second, heavier pair of footsteps joins the first. “I’m coming with you.”

“No, you’re not,” Annette says easily. 

“What? No.” Felix sounds indignant.

“You’re  _ not,”  _ she repeats. The pair of them are much closer, now - their voices are not as muffled as they were before. “Felix. You’ve been up all night. You haven’t slept a wink. What you need is  _ rest,  _ not more of this.”

“So I’m supposed to leave you in there? With him?” Felix snaps. 

“Yep. I can handle myself,” 

“Annette. You heard what he did.”

“Trust me. I know what I’m doing,” Annette insists. Her tone is firm, final in a way Dimitri has never heard it before. “Professor, remember?”

Felix is silent. Dimitri twitches, and ponders on ‘Professor’. Perhaps Annette is a lecturer in this world, or a teacher.

“Are you  _ sure?”  _ Felix asks, eventually. 

“ _ Felix,”  _ Annette huffs. She sounds exasperated.

“Fine,” Felix snaps. He sounds none too happy about it. If Dimitri knows Felix, he is probably crossing his arms, and looking off to the side. “But I’ll wait here,” Felix adds, firmly. “In case he gives you any lip.”

Annette laughs. It is a high, tinkling sound, soft like the ring of windchimes. “Ever the worrywart,” she teases.

It is good to know that at least the Annette and Felix in this world are on just as good terms as they are in the normal world, too. They always seem to be a reassuring constant, even when they are not the ones Dimitri knows.

Then, Annette is stepping in front of the bars. Dimitri’s heart leaps to his throat.

“Hello,” she says, pleasantly. Dimitri cranes his neck upwards. The fear of her being like Sylvain, as cold as he was, is nearly overpowering. Dimitri does not think he could take it if Annette, of all people, started to hate him.

This Annette looks exactly like the Annette he knows. Her hair is curled more prominently at the tips, and her makeup is slightly more subtle, but other than that, she is even more of a duplicate than Felix was. She holds a glowing hammer in her hands, towering over her small frame, and Dimitri assumes that that must be Crusher. 

Amazing. Now they have magical weapons to threaten him with. Somehow, he is not even surprised that it is Annette with the hammer. 

“... Hello,” Dimitri rasps. It is not the usual greeting he reserves for Annette, who likes to hug him as soon as she catches sight of him, but that is hardly fitting for this situation.

Annette appraises him, thoughtful. Dimitri holds her gaze warily, until she eventually rests Crusher against the far wall and crouches down to meet his eye. He must not be a threat to her, if she puts her weapon down within minutes of meeting him.

The thought leaves Dimitri feeling strangely warm.

“How are you feeling?” Annette asks. 

“... Sore,” Dimitri admits. The words leave his lips slowly, yet he regrets them almost the instant he speaks them. He rushes to correct himself. “Fine, otherwise.” 

That is a complete lie. Dimitri feels like a tractor ran him over, but drawing attention away from his pain is second-nature by this point. Wryly, Dimitri imagines how angry his Felix would be if he saw him doing this again.

Well. He would be angry enough seeing him in a prison cell at all. That much is certain.

“I guess you  _ would  _ be feeling that way…” Annette muses. She points to the gruel. It is still untouched. “Aren’t you feeling hungry?”

His food would be unappetising even to someone with a normal throat and a working sense of taste. Dimitri shakes his head, slowly. 

“It won’t go down,” he manages, before he coughs again. 

His throat  _ aches _ . By now, it is a dull pain, and to his irritation, massaging it makes it feel even worse. Annette watches Dimitri grimace, and narrows her eyes.

“Did no-one heal that for you?” she asks sharply.

“Heal?”

Wordlessly, Annette raises her hands. A glow fans out like mist over his body, before collecting together in one mass, and settling on his throat. Annette flicks her wrist, and the white mass sinks into his skin. It feels like a rush of clean, spring water, and when Dimitri touches his throat, he finds that the cut is gone. Disappeared entirely, as though it was never there in the first place.

His throat feels… normal. As if it hadn’t scratched like sandpaper only a few moments ago.

“What did you  _ do?”  _ Dimitri asks, dumbfounded.

Annette huffs. “I can’t believe they didn’t Heal you,” she mutters. “It’s basic protocol. Mercie would be  _ so  _ angry if she was here.”

“Mercie?” Dimitri asks.  _ Mercedes?  _ If Mercedes were here, then surely… “Is she… not here?”

Annette gives him a wary look. She rocks back on the balls of her feet, and straightens to her full height. “Sylvain told me you were well-informed,” she says, evenly. There is no warmth to her voice. Instead, she sounds strangely calm. “There’s no need to pretend or anything, you know. I’m sure you know where we all were for the past few days.”

“What?” Dimitri says, exasperated. He wasn’t even  _ here  _ a few days ago. He still wishes he wasn’t here. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Annette makes a sound of frustration. “Really? Is that the best you can do?” She crosses her arms. It is a motion so reminiscent of Felix that Dimitri nearly laughs. “That won’t fool me, you know.” She stares him down for a few moments more, before finally pointing to the porridge again. “You should be able to eat that now.”

The porridge still looks like slop. Dimitri supposes that at least it is better than starving to death.

He coughs. “Why did you Heal me?” he asks, simply.

Annette rolls her eyes, as if the answer is obvious. “You’ve hurt one of my closest friends,” she tells him, simply. “I still haven’t forgiven you for that.” 

She unfurls her arms, leaving them hanging at her sides in loosely curled fists, but doesn’t elaborate. Dimitri frowns. 

“... You mean the king,” he says, slowly.

Annette looks confused. “Of course.”

Of course. Who else?

“King… Dimitri?” Dimitri says, hesitant. Annette is a good person, and always has been. If anyone here besides Mercedes were capable of helping him, it would be her, because she  _ listens. _

Annette is giving him a look, as if he has suddenly sprouted antlers from his forehead.

“ _ I’m  _ Dimitri,” he enunciates, desperately. 

He does not get far. As soon as he makes that statement, the sharp clack of steel-toed boots sounds down the corridor. Felix is stalking towards the cell, the scowl on his face noticeable from a mile away. 

“That’s enough of that,” he snarls. The venom in his voice is entirely directed at Dimitri. He fights the urge to shrink away from Felix’s glare; again, it is not one he’s seen in a very long time.

Annette rounds on Felix with all the force of a puffed up hamster. “Felix, you didn’t tell me that you didn’t even Heal him!” she frowns.

“Does he need it?” Felix asks, pointedly. 

Dimitri closes his eye, and tunes out the rest of the conversation. It is useless, anyway; he has lost the opportunity to convince Annette, and now Felix is right there, hand on his sword on his belt, as if he means to cut Dimitri down at any given opportunity.

The thought is sobering.

“Think of what Dimitri would say,” Annette is insisting.

“Well, thanks to  _ him,”  _ here Felix points at Dimitri, in his cell, “we have no way of asking him, do we?”

Felix’s eyes are blazing. A tic is jumping in his jaw, and there is not a single trace of softness in his face. None of that warmth that his Felix directs at him whenever he is in a good mood.

Annette frowns again. “Felix…”

Felix doesn’t wait for her explanation. “Let’s go,” he says, curtly, before storming off.

So. This little meeting achieved nothing, and Dimitri had no chance to talk to either of them properly. All of a sudden, he feels very tired.

Annette gives Dimitri one backward glance, expression unreadable, before she turns and follows after Felix. 

  
  
  
  
  


His next visitor is Mercedes. 

By this point, the food has reluctantly gone down. The guards have refilled the bowl already with the same gruel, though this time, Dimitri has the good sense to eat it quickly instead of leaving it to grow cold in the cell.

He is midway through the bowl when he notices that Mercedes is standing in front of his cell. She is in a brown and cream dress, and her hair is shorter than he knows it, styled in a bob, but it is not cropped as short as Ingrid’s. She still looks as warm and as inviting as he knows her to be, with a kind smile gracing her features.

Part of him still does not trust her.

“Hello,” Mercedes says, pleasantly. She pulls out a kit from the apron in her dress, and takes out a container from within it. “I understand that your wrists are a bit chafed. Would you mind letting me take a look?”

This is Mercedes. She is, by all means, the gentlest woman he knows. Her words seem to prove that she is the same in this world, too.

But she is different, too. She is less plump than the Mercedes he knows, and her hands, usually so soft and unblemished, have tiny scars curving along the edges. Her eyes have dark circles underneath them, although they are faint.

This Mercedes is undoubtedly not the one he knows. Still. If anyone would believe him, aside from Annette, it would be her.

There is no harm in trying, he supposes.

Dimitri wordlessly holds up his hands. The handcuffs binding his wrists clatter as Mercedes makes quick work of unlocking the small opening at the left side of the bars. Through this, he can poke both arms through the hole, even though they are chained together.

If only the hole was bigger, so he could also escape. Small fantasies.

“Oh, my,” Mercedes says, as she delicately turns his hands over in her own. His wrists still sting, but Dimitri has gotten used to the chafing by now. “Annie told me that they were forgetting to carry out the usual checks while I was gone, but I didn’t imagine they would be  _ this  _ neglected.”

Her gaze is steely. Dimitri is nearly taken aback by them, before he composes himself.

“Mercedes,” he says, quietly, as she massages cream into the redness of his wrists. “Please. You have to help me.”

“Hm?” Mercedes asks. Her eyes are trained on his hands. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“Please,” Dimitri pleads. He shuffles closer to the bars, so that he can speak urgently without having to raise his voice. “I am not an assassin, or whatever it is everyone thinks I am.” He dips his head. “I  _ am  _ Dimitri. Just — I don’t think I am the Dimitri you are all familiar with.”

Mercedes looks at him. Really  _ looks  _ at him, scrutinising every inch of him with her considering gaze.

“Will you at least hear me out?”

She continues applying the cream to his hands, and doesn’t speak a word. In the silence, Dimitri thinks for a moment that he has lost. The feeling is crushing, until —

“Go on,” she says, quietly.

This is the first time he has gotten an opportunity to speak so freely in this world. Dimitri can’t help it — the story spills from his lips in a mad rush. 

“When I went to bed last night — “  _ or was it two nights ago? Three?  _ “I was not here. I am not from this place. Where I am from, everything is different.” He pauses to count the players on his fingers. “There is no King named Dimitri, nor a Duke called Felix, nor a Margrave called Sylvain, or anyone else like that, for that matter. Instead — well. I am Dimitri.” He gives an awkward wave, and points to himself. He sounds like he is telling a strange fairytale, but… he supposes that that is what this is, really. “I live with Felix. He, Sylvain and Ingrid are my childhood friends. I met Dedue, Ashe, Annette and you later on in my life, and that is all I have ever known. Not any of  _ this.” _

Mercedes is staring at him, mouth slightly open. Dimitri stumbles in his speech, and screeches to a halt.

“I know I must sound mad, but  _ please.  _ Something is terribly wrong. I have no recollection of ever having lived here. There must have been a mistake.”

Mercedes coughs, delicately. “Annie didn’t mention anything about a head injury,” she murmurs to herself.

“My head is  _ fine!”  _ Dimitri says, loudly. “I promise that I am not making any of this up.” Mercedes frowns, and Dimitri knows that she still doesn’t believe him. He tries not to panic. “Mercedes. You enjoy horror stories, correct?”

She startles, and nearly drops his hands. “Yes…?”

“Where I am from — my world? Back in my world, you enjoyed horror stories, too. You liked horror movies, and horror games, and you particularly enjoyed scaring Ashe and Lysithea with your tales.” There is only a slim chance that she would have done the same here, but… “Would an assassin know any of that?”

Mercedes pauses, before sighing. “I... “

“You love baking sweets,” Dimitri barrels onwards. “You and Annette always used to make sweets for your friends. Even when I was at my lowest, you — “

He swallows. Unpleasant memories are catching up to him faster than a current — and this is not the time for unpleasant memories.

“I am not supposed to be here,” he finishes, miserable. “I don’t know  _ why  _ I’m here. But I need to go back at once.” He rattles his chains. “Felix — he will be worried sick. I cannot imagine what he’s going through right now.” 

He knows that, if he went missing, Felix would be out of his mind with worry. Dimitri has promised never to leave suddenly without warning again, and at least not without informing Felix beforehand — yet here is, breaking that promise to the letter.

His heart falls, then, when Mercedes secures the lid onto her cream container. She gathers her skirts, and straightens up, leaving Dimitri squatting on the floor, with his arms hanging through the bars of his cell.

“I’m sorry,” she tells him, and the worst part is that she truly does sound sorry. “I wish I could believe you, I really do. But you must understand that our king — my  _ friend _ _ — _ i s missing. I just have no idea if you’re really telling me the truth or not.”

“Mercedes…” Dimitri trails off. He exhales.

It is pointless. Pointless to believe that she would believe him, when no one else has even tried to believe him before.

Dimitri feels ridiculous for making himself so vulnerable.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Mercedes asks.

“... No,” Dimitri says, flatly. His head is hurting again.

Mercedes nods. She looks troubled, walks off anyway, without sparing him another glance.

Dimitri can feel his patience wear thin, minute by minute. The weight of his sentence feels like a guillotine slicing through the air. He has no idea what they’ll do, but he can’t imagine it will be pretty. 

  
  
  
  
  


Dimitri only notices that Dedue is there when the shadow casts down on him through the bars.

“Dedue!” he cries, springing up. He nearly trips across his chains, narrowly avoiding falling flat on his face.

But Dimitri’s happiness is cut short when he catches sight of Dedue’s face. “Dedue… what happened to you?”

Like Mercedes, scars litter the whole of his face. They are thin and silvery, and they cross his lip, his cheeks, his temple. Dedue is still handsome, that much is no doubt, but he looks weathered, like a stone battered by the sea. 

His appearance is different, too, from what Dimitri is used to. He has grown his hair out, and his muscles are bulkier. More than that, he wears traditional Duscur clothes that Dimitri is familiar with, only in more muted colours than the ones Dimitri remembers.

“Stay back,” Dedue orders. His voice is low and authoritative. With a sinking feeling, Dimitri realises that he has never heard it directed to him so coldly.

Suddenly, he feels small. 

Dimitri really is alone. Everyone here either hates him or pities him, and ironically, it is because they are worrying for an alternate version for him. They do care for him, but it is not  _ him  _ specifically they care about. Their love is being directed to another version of him, in the wrong place.

Dimitri fights the urge to look away. “Dedue,” he urges, holding Dedue’s unwavering gaze. “Have you heard anything from Mercedes yet?”

He would rather not repeat himself. Or make himself as vulnerable as he already has.

“You speak to me as if you are familiar with me.” Dedue’s eyes are narrowed. “You are making a mistake. Especially by daring to use His Majesty’s face.” 

Dimitri swallows. What on earth is their obsession with shapeshifting? Dimitri has no idea, other than that it will probably get him into trouble.

Dedue steps forward. “I will ask you this once, and once only. Where have you taken His Majesty?” His voice carries through the hallway. There is nowhere for Dimitri to escape. “Consider your answer carefully.”

Dedue has with him a huge axe that he is clasping with his right hand. Dimitri will never feel scared of Dedue, not ever, but it is comforting that his protectiveness of him is another constant in this strange world-hopping business.

No. Dimitri shakes his head. There should be no need for him to use weapons to ensure Dimitri’s safety. Dedue should be gardening, or cooking, or spending time with the people he loves. Focusing on his own hobbies and his own interests.

Not this. Not threatening to kill for him.

It is disheartening that everyone is somewhat similar to their other selves, yet Dimitri’s other self seems to be shaping into someone completely different.

“I haven’t taken him anywhere,” Dimitri says. “Dedue, please listen.” He gestures to the bars, and Dedue remains as stony faced as ever. “I have already told Mercedes this, but I am not from this place. I am sure of it.” Dimitri shakes the bars, but Dedue doesn’t respond. “I  _ am  _ Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, but not the one you know!”

His outburst gains a reaction. Dedue’s eyes flash. “I warned you to consider your answer before you speak—“

“Look!” Dimitri cries. He grabs a fold of his pyjamas, penguin-print and all, and does his best to hold it up to Dedue’s line of sight. “Have you seen this material in this world?” He has no idea where this new idea is coming from, but he is counting on this place being ancient enough to not recognise printed cotton when they see it.

Or — Goddess, he is so  _ stupid. _ Why use printed cotton when he could just use — “Actually, just look in my pockets.”

Dimitri wobbles, stumbling to his feet. He isn’t able to stand up straight, but he does manage to turn, allowing Dedue proper access to his pockets. 

Dedue fishes out his phone, and his brows furrow. “What is this?” he asks.

“My phone,” Dimitri huffs. “Where I come from, we use it to communicate. Amongst other things.” He prays that this works, because if it doesn’t, then he will be truly stuck. “Press the button.”

Slightly apprehensive, Dedue punches in the home button. The screen lights up, showing the familiar picture, and Dedue’s face slackens.

Dimitri prays, and hopes. “Do you see now?” he asks, breathing heavily. “Do you believe me?”

Dedue doesn’t spare him a glance. He only startles, and turns the phone in his hands. The screen dims after a while, and Dedue immediately presses the button again, inspecting the screen for what seems like hours.

Then, he gets up, abruptly. He is still gripping the phone tight in one hand.

“Dedue?” Dimitri asks.

“I will be back,” Dedue mutters, before striding away.

“Dedue!”

Dedue walks off without a response. Dimitri slumps. 

Now he has lost his phone—his one means of communication — as well as the last physical object he brought with him into this place.

Dimitri feels sick. He has made a mistake. They probably think it is some sort of magic which they do not understand, and will try to destroy it.

_ Why _ did he do that?

“You!” a voice snarls, interrupting his turmoil. Felix is rounding the corner, flanked by Dedue and Mercedes. The phone is clutched in his hand, and his face is twisted with his usual anger. “What is this?”

He presses the POWER button a little too forcefully, and the screen lights up again, just as it had done for Dedue. Felix flashes the screen to Dimitri, scowling. Thankfully, the lockscreen is exactly how Dimitri had left it.

The photo is of Dimitri and his close circle, last year at the skating rink during the Christmas holidays. Annette had been taking the selfie, so her face takes up most of the bottom right corner of the photo. Dimitri had been at the back, with Sylvain’s arms slung around his neck. Felix had been closest to Annette, giving one of his slightly bigger smiles, and Dedue and Mercedes had been standing close to one another at the back. Finally, Ingrid and Ashe had completed the photo by taking up the space of the outer edges, farther away from the others with hot cocoa in each hand.

In front of him, Felix is still seething. He clutches the phone, knuckles white, as if it has personally offended him.

“Felix,” Dimitri starts, but Felix interrupts him with the coldest glare he has ever seen.

“Duke Fraldarius,” he hisses.

Dimitri closes his eye. He feels his patience wearing away, and instead, counts to ten. “Felix,  _ please. _ Listen to me — “

Felix unsheathes his sword. He gets closer, until his face is nearly level with Dimitri’s from across the bars, and Dimitri’s phone is wobbling dangerously out of his hands. “I warned you once — “

_ Enough. _

“Felix!” Dimitri explodes. “Will you, for  _ once  _ in your life, please  _ listen to me!” _

His outburst shocks Felix into silence. It shocks the others, too, who are both staring at Dimitri with raised eyebrows, so Dimitri grabs the opportunity to speak when they are silent.

“Listen to me,” he nearly snarls. Saints, he is losing control. “I am  _ Dimitri,  _ but I am not _ your  _ Dimitri. I don’t know how I ended up awakening in this place, but I wish I hadn’t, because the very first thing you do is throw me in a cell, and — ” he feels his temper flare, again, “ — frankly, I am having none of it.” 

Dimitri exhales heavily. Stares down Felix, even from his cramped position, because he has had  _ enough.  _ “Do what you like to me, but know that you are doing it to an innocent man.”

Felix gazes back, expression unreadable, before he laughs. “You expect me to believe you?” he snarls. 

Dimitri struggles to his feet. His head is reeling.

“Yes, I do!” he shouts. “Look at my phone. That is evidence enough, isn’t it?” He gestures wildly to it, as much as he can while chained. “Look at how different you look in that photo. Look at the others, too. My Dedue is not that scarred. The Sylvain I know has not grown a beard and frankly, I have never imagined him in one. And Ashe has not cut his hair short.” 

Dimitri is breathing heavily. Felix is still glaring at him, and Dimitri holds his defiant gaze for as long as he possibly can.

In the end, it is Mercedes who brokers them a deal.

“Felix,” she interrupts. Her voice is as gentle as always. “I have a suggestion.”

“What,” Felix grits out. He keeps his eyes trained solely on Dimitri.

“He claims that he is an innocent man,” Mercedes says, carefully. She speaks like she is approaching an injured cat. “It wouldn’t sit right with me to watch you deal out a punishment without at least giving him a proper trial.”

Thank everything for Mercedes and her common sense.

Dedue still does not look convinced, however. “Considering that His Majesty is not here,” he rumbles, “that would be difficult enough as it is.”

Felix growls, before whirling on her, cloak flying around his body. “Mercedes, why are you defending him?”

“Felix,” Mercedes sighs. She takes a deep breath, and turns her gaze skyward. The next part is spoken out of the corner of her mouth. “Actually, my suggestion was that we put him on house arrest.”

Dimitri blinks. “House arrest?” he repeats. 

House arrest… in a place where he has no house?

Mercedes turns to him. “I’m sorry, but we still don’t know whether we can trust you or not,” she apologises. “And that will probably stay the case until Dimitri returns to us.”

Well. He appreciates that she is honest, at least.

It is so strange, though, to have his name addressed like that in such a different context. He and King Dimitri are, from what he is guessing, essentially the same entity, but born in different places and circumstances. For Mercedes to address the Dimitri of this world with such a different tone…

It is strange.

Felix is still staring at him. Dimitri’s phone is nestled comfortably in his palm, instead of dangling from his fingers, which he is grateful for. The tic in his jaw is still jumping.

“Mercedes…” Dedue speaks up. His voice is considering. “That is not a bad idea.”

“Isn’t it?” Mercedes beams up at him. 

“I don’t like it,” Felix says, immediately. 

“Unsurprising,” Dedue tells him, flatly, before Dimitri groans.

His brain feels as if it is thrashing around in the base of his skull. He cannot even hold his head in his hands, as he would do normally.

What a time to get a headache. Dimitri bites his lip, and suppresses his pain. He knows they are still staring at him, but he can hardly look up.

“Fine!” Felix finally spits. “Fine. Have it your way. But if he’s on house arrest, then he won’t be leaving the room. At all.”

“Generally, that’s what house arrests are for,” Mercedes smiles. As if Dimitri’s life isn’t being turned upside down, this very minute. 

“I’m staying with him,” Felix grits out. “ _ You _ may trust him, but I don’t.”

“Who said anything about trust?” Mercedes says. “I’m only doing what Dimitri would have wanted.” She pauses, then, and gives Felix her sunniest smile. “Fair consideration for all the state’s prisoners. Innocent until proven guilty. You know the works.”

Felix purses his lip, looking like he wants nothing more than to draw his sword, but  _ finally,  _ he acquiesces. Dimitri’s head quietens, ever so slightly. Mercedes is a wonder, and at this very moment, he could not be more thankful for her.

Felix is an entirely different story. His eyes are still boring holes into Dimitri. “You. Get up.”

Dimitri lifts his hands, rattling the chains. “I will need some help,” he says, calmly, and relishes in how Felix throws him a rageful look before he retrieves the keys from the prison guard.

Felix jerks at his chains and releases Dimitri’s ankles, scowling the entire time. The skin is rubbed raw, and the fresh air that touches it is the best thing Dimitri has felt since waking up in this place. His wrists, however, are left untouched.

The moment the cell door swings open, and Dimitri stumbles out into the hallway, Felix unsheathes his sword and points it at his back. 

“No sudden movements,” he says, tersely.

“Surely you cannot keep me in chains the entire time I am on house arrest,” Dimitri says. It is a reasonable enough request, although he has no idea why he is being so daring in a situation like this. He supposes that things are already bizarre enough, so having a sword pointed at one’s back for the second time that week is hardly a strange thing anymore. 

Felix’s silence speaks volumes.

They arrive at the king’s chambers through a separate, isolated passageway. Not a single person is patrolling the corridor — not even the guards, which strikes Dimitri as odd. Surely a missing king would make for much tighter security?

Well. What does he know. He was being interrogated for helping that king go missing, after all.

The king’s bedroom is at the end of the corridor. The door is richly decorated, with polished hinges and a mahogany frame. Two guards flank the doorway, and they nod to Felix upon arrival.

“If anyone requests an audience, tell them that the king is indisposed,” Felix says. 

The guards barely spare him a look. “Yes, Your Grace,” they reply, in sync, and Dimitri marvels at their efficiency.

_ Your Grace.  _ How odd, hearing Felix addressed as such.

When they get in, Felix immediately locks the door. He then bolts every single window, even the high, arching ones that reach the top of the room, and retrieves a key from the balcony door. Finally, he drops into the far armchair, and glares at Dimitri in that familiar hostile manner. 

“You claim that you’re  _ a Dimitri,”  _ and here his voice turns mocking, “from another world.” His tone is icy, as he gestures towards a rickety chair in front of the fireplace.“Tell me about yourself, then.”

Inwardly, Dimitri sighs. He has spoken so much in the past few hours, and his mind is drained. So is his appetite. All he really wishes to do now is to tumble into bed, and sleep — which is astonishing, given his infamous track record with his sleep cycle.

“May I at least have my phone back?” he asks. He rattles the handcuffs for extra emphasis, hoping Felis will get that hint. “Everything will be easier to explain if I have it with me.”

“No,” Felix snaps. 

Dimitri sighs, long and slow. He has no idea what he expected from this frustrating, murderous Felix, but feels it smarter to not jump the man with a sword. Who also happens to have him on house arrest.

Felix has  _ him  _ on house arrest. What a day it has been.

“Fine.”

Eyes heavy, Dimitri finally sits down. He launches into a patchy retelling of his life as he remembers it, and wonders why on earth the worst things always have to happen to him.

* * *

_ 15th August, 2020 _

The next day, Dimitri’s cheek is an ugly blossom of mottled purple and black.

Whenever Felix sees the mess he made, he grits his teeth, and suppresses the urge to apologise again, even though Dimitri has apparently forgiven him. Although he did do it reluctantly, with the most resigned, tired expression that Felix has ever seen on his face.

He doesn’t know what to  _ do.  _ When Felix yelled at him, palms sweaty, Dimitri had looked away, refusing to explain what ‘severely’ meant. As if he didn’t think Felix couldn’t handle it. 

Instead, Felix’s mind had helpfully created a lovely picture for him. Pictures of his Dimitri being tortured, or hanged, or having his head sliced off with a guillotine, maybe.

Dimitri had reassured him that his friends wouldn’t hang his Dimitri when he had asked. He was silent about the guillotine, though, suddenly pondering, and Felix had wanted to scream.

Worst of all, Felix can’t do anything to help. It’s ridiculous how useless he is right now. Dimitri is out there, with — what, his phone? His pyjamas? What else?

Felix grits his teeth. He stares at the wall with a viciousness he cannot direct anywhere else.

If anyone even  _ tried  _ to lay a hand on Dimitri out there, Felix would gladly hop dimensions and gut them all himself.

  
  
  
  


Later, Felix finds the king prodding at his TV.

“What is this?” Dimitri asks, curious. He is flicking through the channels, pressing the buttons on the machine with incredible force, finally settling on a cooking show. 

The person on TV demonstrates how to use a hand mixer to beat a meringue. Dimitri watches, fascinated. There is an eager, almost childlike look in his eye, and Felix wonders why meringue of all things is fascinating for him.

“A hand mixer,” Felix tells him, curt. His eyes land on the bruise, again, and he averts his gaze. The pit in his stomach tenses queasily.

“Oh, I understand. Instead of mixing the ingredients by hand, is there an automaton that will do it for you?”

“An electric machine,” Felix corrects. He shifts his feet. “Sometimes people do it by hand, anyway.”

“I see,” says Dimitri, and leaves it at that.

Dimitri keeps watching cooking shows. Hunched up on the sofa, he points the remote at the screen every so often and changes channels, until he becomes strangely transfixed by whatever the person on the screen is making at the time. The hands-on approach is working for him, clearly, because Dimitri doesn’t tear his eye away from the screen. Not even once.

This Dimitri doesn’t  _ know  _ anything. Sooner or later, he will be forced to venture outside, because the Dimitri that everyone knows actually made plans, now and then. This Dimitri, though… is so  _ different.  _ He is so much more regal and refined and reserved than the normal Dimitri, and it makes Felix’s head spin.

Felix resists the urge to drag a hand down his face. Is there  _ anything  _ similar between the two of them? Granted, he’s known this Dimitri for all of two days, but…

Fine. It’s fine. They’ll cross that bridge when they come to it.

“I am not good at cooking,” Dimitri admits to him, later, when Felix hands him a bowl of microwaved pasta. “Or baking.” 

“I know,” Felix dismisses. Dimitri’s lack of cooking ability is infamous.  _ At least there’s one thing the two of them have in common,  _ he thinks grimly. “... Is the food good?”

“Hm?” Dimitri says, distracted. Then, he startles, and brings the fork to his mouth. “Oh, of course. It’s wonderful.”

Their conversation is awkward, stilted. Felix watches as Dimitri carefully bites each piece of pasta individually. His face is blank and expressionless, as if he can’t even taste the thing.

Felix bristles. “Do you not like cheese?” he bites out.

Dimitri blinks at him. His brows furrow, and he gives Felix a considering look. As if he knows something Felix doesn’t.

“Cheese… is good,” Dimitri says, hesitantly. He coughs, once, like he’s deliberating over something. Felix waits impatiently, tapping his foot against the ground.

Dimitri chews slowly. Finally, he asks: “Does your Dimitri — does he not — “

The doorbell rings. 

Abruptly, Dimitri stops speaking. Felix stops breathing, too, as they both swivel in their seats, and turn to stare at the door.

The doorbell rings, again. More insistent this time. 

Felix whips around. He looks at Dimitri, who has a fork to his mouth, wide-eyed. He is still wearing that pirate eyepatch. Still has those unfamiliar scars slashed across his face.

_ Fuck. _


	5. in which Dimitri befriends a horse

_ 15th of the Verdant Rain Moon, 1187 _

This is the date given to him, when Dimitri asks. 

“Verdant Rain Moon?” he echoes. It sounds like something out of a fairytale, but Felix just gives him a flat, disbelieving look.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know how to use a calendar,” he snaps. 

Dimitri feels his annoyance rise again, but he manages to quell it. He presses a hand to his temple, and remembers every other time he had had to deal with Felix being short with him.

It has been a long time since their relationship was this strained.

“No, Felix,” he sighs. “I am used to a different calendar. That’s all.”

Felix snorts, and crosses his arms. He looks utterly obnoxious. It is decidedly not a good look on him.

“I told you, it’s  _ Duke Fraldarius,”  _ Felix says, coldly. “In public, you will address me as ‘Duke Fraldarius’, or as ‘Your Grace’, during events. Never by my name.”

Dimitri resists the urge to roll his eye.  _ Saints.  _

“I have never known my Felix to be so fastidious,” he tells the Felix across from him. Felix bristles, and Dimitri can’t help the satisfaction he feels as Felix fluffs up like an angry cat.

“Well, you must lead a rather easy life, then,” Felix snaps back. 

He is so infuriating that Dimitri has to restrain himself from scowling. He has  _ never  _ scowled at Felix, so the prospect of it is daunting enough.

They are not getting along. It is scary, how incompatible they are, because this Felix hates him beyond measure. It is not like how his Felix had despised what Dimitri was pretending to be in his adolescent years. Rather, it is an active, simmering hate for who Dimitri  _ is. _

Everything Dimitri does annoys him. It is exhausting, to say something and be immediately snapped at for no clear reason, and Dimitri feels as if he has been tossed back into the old times, when he and Felix had not gotten along.

At least that relationship had been repaired, more or less. Dimitri cannot understand this Felix at _ all.  _

More than that, Dimitri’s house arrest has been  _ boring.  _ It is true that King Dimitri’s room is luxurious, and there are many details that he hadn’t noticed when he first woke up here. There is a small bathtub covered by a screen on the other side of the room, for example, and there is a ruby-studded dagger under the pillow. The wardrobe is big, nearly as huge as a walk-in, and the rug underneath his feet seems to be made of a real pelt. The thought of that makes Dimitri feel vaguely ill.

Worst of all, he is horribly alone. Without his friends, and without any means of contact, because Felix still has his phone.

It makes his fingers shake. As stupid as it sounds, Dimitri wishes he had put his phone on charge before he slept, but he has a terrible feeling that he didn’t.

Well. Hopefully, he will be back home before he has to deal with anything too drastic.

“What happens if I refuse to address you by your title?” Dimitri asks, instead. He tries to smile, even though it feels like leaping into a den of crocodiles. “I’m finding it difficult to not see you as just Felix.”

At this, Felix bristles. “You’re under house arrest,” he snarls. His long hair is tumbling over one shoulder, and he has to flick it out of the way. “Do you think it’s really a good idea to antagonise me?”

“No,” Dimitri replies, patiently, “but I find it difficult to address you as a Duke.” He pauses, and considers his words. “It’s unfamiliar to me.”

As it turns out, he has wasted his breath. Felix scowls deeply, and stares at him with hostility he doesn’t bother to veil.

“Get used to it, then,” Felix says. His eyes are narrowed, still. “You’ll have to be doing it for a while longer.”

The weight and menace of Felix’s words makes Dimitri straighten.

“What?” Dimitri echoes. His mind has gone blank.

“Haven’t you worked it out?” When Dimitri shakes his head, he very nearly snarls. “Thanks to whatever magic you used —”

“Magic doesn’t  _ exist  _ for me,” Dimitri protests again, but Felix barrels on anyway.

“Thanks to your magic, we are without a king.” Felix’s face is grim. “And until we get him back — and if I find out that you are responsible, I won’t hesitate to slit your throat — we need a substitute.”

“A substitute?” Dimitri parrots, dumbfounded. Felix raises an eyebrow, his lips still pressed together thinly. Dimitri feels his blood go cold. “Felix, you cannot be serious.”

How can he be a substitute for a king? The thought is astounding. He only wants to go  _ home.  _

“I am.” Felix’s voice is cold.

This is ridiculous.  _ Ridiculous.  _ He couldn’t possibly be —

“I am not a  _ king,”  _ Dimitri stresses. He glances towards the door, but it is mercilessly barred shut. “We agreed for house arrest. Not — _ this.” _

“Why didn’t you think of that before you decided to force your way in here?” Felix snaps. 

He is already rising. Already walking away, his long cloak swishing about his ankles.

Dimitri’s throat is dry. “I  _ told  _ you. I had nothing to do with that.”

“Hmph.” Felix tosses his hair. He has paused, at least. “Funny. I still don’t believe you.”

“Felix,” Dimitri says, exasperated. He throws his hands in the air. “Fine. What if I refuse?”

Felix stops entirely, this time. He turns to face Dimitri properly, and Dimitri swears that the air chills as he does.

Dimitri settles back in his seat, uncomfortably aware that he has probably said something very wrong and very antagonistic. Especially important, since his freedom does indeed lie in their hands.

Felix’s face is terrifying. Dimitri makes a mental note to stop being so snappish with him.

“If you refuse,” Felix begins, slowly, as he stalks across the room, “then I will have lost my excuse for keeping you alive.”

His voice is utterly icy. In this moment, with his eyes trained on Dimitri like a hound, Felix looks like a killer.

Dimitri swallows, and plasters on a calm smile.

“You won’t kill me,” he counters. He is proud that his voice doesn’t falter. “Who else here looks exactly like your king?”

A swarm of emotions crosses Felix’s face. Anger, at first - the true anger Dimitri has only seen from him once before. Then surprise, as his eyes tilt upwards, and then confusion. Finally, as he glares at Dimitri, the tic starts to jumps in Felix’s jaw again.

“Don’t test my patience,” Felix growls. 

“Felix,” Dimitri sighs. “I am not intentionally being difficult.” He gets out of his chair, and realises that, even though he is taller than Felix, Felix still glares at him as if he is the dirt under his shoe. “I’m simply saying that I have no idea how to be a king. I just want to go  _ home.” _

Felix stares. At this proximity, Dimitri can count each individual lash. It is a small detail, but somehow, Dimitri knows that his lashes are longer than his own Felix’s.

“Well, until he comes back,” Felix says, slowly, “you won’t be going anywhere.”

With that, Felix swishes out of the room, lock clicking in place. The silence he leaves behind is deafening.

  
  
  
  
  


Dimitri genuinely believes that he shouldn’t be surprised at anything anymore. Despite his efforts, he is forced to behave like the king from the very beginning, even though he has no idea what he is doing.

He just  _ graduated.  _ After years of struggling and dropping out and taking a break and then returning to education and finally  _ graduating,  _ having some clear goal in mind, yet now he has to deal with  _ this. _

Anyway. The versions of his friends here were once called the Blue Lions, Dimitri is informed. The knowledge that the name of his old hockey team is the equivalent to a prestigious academic house in this world is… unsettling, to say the least.

It turns out that that is not the strangest thing he learns. It is really only the beginning.

“You are lucky. His Majesty has no meetings today,” Dedue tells him, face is blank and lacking any of the warmth he usually holds for Dimitri. He is standing much further away from him than Dimitri is used to, and the sight makes Dimitri’s heart ache. “When His Majesty has time to spare, he often utilises it by spending his time with the castle orphans. You would do well to bear that in mind.”

Castle orphans.  _ That not should not be too difficult, _ Dimitri thinks. They are only children. 

Except children are scarily perceptive. Dimitri winces at the thought of slipping in front of them. The movement shifts a pin in his shirt so that it is grazing against his skin, and Dimitri winces, again.

“Dedue,” he says, helplessly. The clothes he is wearing are so stiff, with the texture of cardboard. The pins holding his tunic up are huge and sharp, and his boots are slightly too small for his toes. All in all, he is  _ uncomfortable.  _ Confiding in Dedue is what he usually does when he feels uncomfortable. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Of course, he confides in the Dedue he knows, but this is not him. Dimitri realises his mistake when Dedue stays silent — when he turns to find Dedue scrutinising him carefully.

“I still do not trust you,” Dedue rumbles. Dimitri’s heart drops to the pit of his stomach. Somehow, Dedue’s words sting more than Felix’s abrasiveness. “If I find out that you are indeed the one responsible for His Majesty’s kidnapping, then I will find you, no matter how far you run.”

“Believe me, I am not responsible for his disappearance,” Dimitri sighs. Frankly, he’s beginning to resent this king, and all the trouble his disappearance is causing. “I am not from here, as you are well aware.”

He has said this so many times that his tongue feels heavy in his mouth.

“... Hm.” Dedue only crosses his arms, and watches as Dimitri fiddles with the ends of his cloak. “Well, remember that warning.”

Dimitri supposes he is lucky Dedue is not threatening to kill him if he left. Not that he ever would, of course, because it is Dedue. 

He must truly care for the king here, because the bags under his eyes are deep, even though his movements are steady. Dimitri frowns, but turns away in the end.

These clothes are horrid. Dimitri has no idea how one could parade about in a cloak as heavy as this all day. Fhirdiad is cold, but when he is changing next to a fireplace, the cloak may as well be a sheet of molden gold. Not to mention his trousers, which feel like starch, chafing against his skin.

Dimitri fiddles with the laces. The silk strings slip out of his fumbling fingers, and he curses under his breath.

Suddenly, Dedue speaks up.

“Unlace it again,” he says, as Dimitri tries not to jump out of his boots at the sound of his voice. “Begin the tie with the left string, first, so that you make a criss-cross pattern.”

Dimitri tries again. This time, the tunic ties perfectly. Unsurprising, considering that this is Dedue’s advice he is using. 

“Thank you, Dedue,” Dimitri says, gratefully. Dedue says nothing in response, and steps back to where he was before. 

Dimitri frowns at that, but Dedue ignores him, only motioning towards the door with a pointed gesture. Soon enough, they are heading out of the room and down the spiral steps towards the heart of the castle.

“As you are aware, only the guards that captured you and the rest of His Majesty’s inner circle know what has truly transpired,” Dedue is saying, as they walk down the corridor. Servants passing by bow their respects, and Dimitri fumbles to respond accordingly. “The rest of the council, and the people, do not.”

The council. He has a  _ council.  _ The mention of a king’s council, of all things, reminds Dimitri exactly how ridiculous his situation is.

“Is there really any need for this?” he blurts. He sounds embarrassingly desperate, but… “I still have no idea why I must masquerade as the king. I have no idea how to act as a king. There are so many ways for this to go terribly wrong—surely you must see this.”

Dedue presses onwards. “Felix will be with you,” he says, and Dimitri closes his eye. “He will make sure that you do not try to escape.”

Of course. 

“Fantastic,” Dimitri sighs. It was foolish to expect anything else. “And you, Dedue?”

Dimitri wants this Dedue to like him. But Dedue only looks at him with a sideways glance. Ever wary, and grim as stone.

“I have matters to attend to elsewhere,” he says. “I will return later.”

He says this so coldly. Dimitri only sighs, his shoulders aching. The flare from the torches on the wall seems too bright, somehow.

“All right,” Dimitri says. He braces himself. “Lead the way.”

* * *

_ 15th August, 2020 _

“Felix?” Dimitri whispers. The pasta bowl is left unforgotten on the table as the doorbell rings.

Felix spends a second staring at Dimitri’s stricken face. Then, he leaps to his feet.

_ “Take that off,”  _ he hisses, gesturing wildly to the eyepatch. He doesn’t wait around to see if Dimitri’s listening to him, darting into the bedroom instead. 

He rummages through the drawer. Fuck. This _ is  _ where Dimitri keeps his spares — Felix knows this — but he can’t find a single one now.  _ Damnit! _

The doorbell rings again, insistent. A muffled voice speaks from the other side.

“Felix? Dimitri?” the person calls. Felix’s fingers knock against the wood. “Are you sleeping in again?”

_ Finally, _ he finds it. Dimitri’s usual white eyepatch, the one with the twin straps. He yanks it out of the drawer, and vaults over the sofa to fling it at the other Dimitri, who thankfully has the good sense to toss his ancient clothes behind the sofa. 

“Put this on,” Felix demands, and he shoves the clothes into the laundry basket.

For the first time, Dimitri’s composure cracks. He looks flighty. “What?” he says, stunned, and Felix wants to shake him.

“Just do it!” he hisses, before he rushes to the front door.

Even though his heart is thudding, Felix isn’t surprised at all when he opens it to find Annette on the other side. She’s in a T-shirt and shorts, with a hat balanced carefully on her head. More importantly, she is fully dressed — unlike Felix, who is still in his pyjamas.

“... Annette,” Felix says. He drags out the last syllable, and winces at how suspicious he sounds already.

“Felix!” Annette huffs. She gives him an accusing look. “Were you sleeping in again? Really?”

“Er,” Felix says, intelligently. She is still staring at him. “Yes. I was.” He shifts, and looks at the spot on the far wall. It’s an ugly spot. “Is that really a problem?”

Annette screws up her face. “Don’t tell me you forgot,” she warns. She’s being threatening, in her own playful way, but Felix panics when he finds himself drawing a blank.

_ Forgot? _

Ah. Yes. He was supposed to go out with her today for lunch.

Fuck.

“No. Of course not,” Felix says, still staring at the spot. “I’m just getting ready. That’s all.”

Thankfully, Annette is used to him, so she brushes it off. “Fine, I’ll let you off this time,” she teases. “Can I borrow your armchair, though? The bus broke down on the way here, and my legs are soooo tired…” 

Annette stretches into a yawn. Felix blanches. Behind him, the apartment is utterly silent. 

She can’t come in, because Annette is  _ smart. _ She’ll figure Dimitri out in seconds, and Felix has no way of explaining this to her, because it will only make her anxious and worried. Assuming that she believes them, anyway.

Annette needs to leave. Now.

“Sure,” Felix says, instead, because it will be a cold day in hell before he refuses Annette Fantine Dominic. 

He grits his teeth, curses his own weakness, and prays that Dimitri’s hiding in a room somewhere.

Annette smiles as she walks in. Felix keeps his eyes trained solely on her face. He’s walking backwards, and looks like an idiot, but —

Her face twists into confusion.  _ Fuck. _

“Dimitri!” she exclaims, skipping forwards. Felix closes his eyes. “I thought you were in that meeting today?”

“Ah,” Dimitri looks like a deer in a trap, but awkwardly regal instead of utterly frightened. Silently, making sure Annette can’t see him, Felix shakes his head. “Good morning, Annette.” Dimitri pauses. He frantically glances at Felix, who shakes his head, again. “I — did not go to it, no.”

Annette makes a confused face. "How come? Wasn't it important?" Then, slyly, she adds, "Important enough to miss lunch with us?"

It’s Annette’s usual brand of humour, which Dimitri would usually respond to in kind. Instead, this Dimitri stammers. 

"Ah," he says, eloquently, and leaves it at that.

Annette stays silent, suddenly awkward. Felix has to think on his feet, and ends up miming a vomiting motion behind Annette's head. To his irritation, Dimitri understands that much easier than he did the other motions.

"Unfortunately, I did not feel very well when I woke up, so I decided not to go in the end."

Felix cringes internally. Dimitri sounds so  _ formal.  _ It’s a glaring mistake, but somehow, Annette only makes a sympathetic face. "Aw, no. Headache again?"

Dimitri nods. His jaw is still tense, and so is Felix.

"Well," Annette says, with her signature winning smile, "it'd be kinda awful if we left you here, Dimitri." Dimitri jolts when she says his name, but Felix is too preoccupied with the first part of her sentence to properly analyse that. "How about Felix and I stay and keep you company, instead of going out for lunch? Hey, we could even make our own lunch at home! I don't know what ingredients you've got, but you already know how great my casseroles are…"

Annette rambles on, hands flying in her excitement. Dimitri's eye is wide. 

"What? No," Felix barks. His voice does  _ not  _ shake.

Annette rounds on him. "Felix! Don't be so mean," she scolds.

No. No, Annette is  _ smart _ , and she'll figure out something is wrong if she hears Dimitri speak more than one full sentence.

Suddenly, it seems imperative to get Annette out of the apartment. Without hurting her feelings.

"I will be perfectly fine alone," Dimitri cuts in. "Please, there is no need to miss out on an opportunity for my sake."

Annette stares at him. Felix rolls his eyes, even though his stomach is churning. Dimitri is being too  _ stiff.  _

“I’d feel bad if we just left you all alone here,” she says, slowly. “Alone and  _ sick.  _ We can at least make your lunch for you, and make sure you’ve got everything you need.”

She gives Dimitri an encouraging smile, but he only stares back. As if the idea of that is abnormal.

Felix wants to throttle him. He manages not to, though, bringing a hand to his head and patting it instead. Thankfully, Dimitri gets the hint.

“Thank you, Annette,” he says. He coughs, and when he speaks again, there is a noticeable strain to his voice. “I would appreciate that.”

Annette brings her hands together, gleeful. Dimitri winces, and rubs his head a little too enthusiastically. Felix groans out loud.

Then, for the next three hours, the two of them are subjected entirely to Annette and her fantastical cooking. 

  
  
  
  


When they finish, Felix collapses facedown on the sofa. 

“Felix!” Annette complains, poking her head around the kitchen. “Are you already tired?”

“Hm,” Felix mumbles. He waves a hand in the general direction of her voice, before letting it flop and dangle over the sofa. Cooking with Annette had been calming as always, but Felix doesn’t want to see another tomato for the rest of his life.

“At least help me take this to Dimitri,” Annette pesters. 

Felix gives her a brief glance. Her head is still poking around the kitchen door, but she is smiling widely.

He sighs, and gets up. 

The entire time they had cooked, Dimitri had been nursing a ‘headache’ in the other room. Now, when they enter the room, plate in hand, the first thing Felix notes is that the blinds are shut. Dimitri is lying on his back, with a wet cloth on his forehead, and he is breathing deeply. Annette and Felix pick their way through the clothes strewn about on the floor to place the food on his bedside table, and when Annette asks if he wants anything, he shakes his head, heavy and slow.

Dimitri’s a good actor. Felix stares at him for a few minutes longer than he should, before he pads out of the room and back into the kitchen.

“He really does look tired, doesn’t he?” Annette muses, once they’re in the light again. Felix is astonished that she still hasn’t caught on, but her sad pout becomes a bigger priority embarrassingly quickly. “He’s not pushing himself too hard, is he?”

Felix considers for half a second. Annette’s mouth is turned down, and her eyes look sad.

He reaches out, and pats her on the shoulder. She shoots him a grateful look.

“He’s Dimitri,” Felix grunts. He shifts his eyes to the side, in the direction of the bedroom. “What do you expect?”

“Still,” Annette says. “He needs to take breaks from time to time. You’ve been helping him pace himself, haven’t you?”

Well. He’s been trying, but Dimitri’s stubbornness is difficult to temper, and it is something that tires him quickly.

…  _ Both  _ Dimitris’ stubbornness. Ugh.

“... Maybe,” says Felix. He tears his gaze away from the bedroom door. 

Annette beams, and squeezes his arm.

In the end, Annette doesn’t notice that Dimitri is  _ different _ . Felix has no idea how she doesn’t, seeing that it’s so obvious, but true to her word, she begins preparing to leave after she spends the time she would have spent with Felix at a restaurant hanging out with him in the apartment. She has a practice to go to, apparently, and normally Felix would be disappointed to see her go so soon, but… well. This time, he has no complaints.

Dimitri emerges from his room when she is about to leave, clad in a fluffy dressing gown and pretending to squint in the darkness. Felix stares at him, incredulous — why is he wearing that in  _ August? _ _ — _ but is quickly distracted when Annette kisses him on the cheek.

Dimitri goes red, which is an understatement in itself. Annette doesn’t notice, but Felix does, especially when Dimitri freezes in the doorway.

… Huh.

Annette kisses Felix on the cheek, too. He has to bend down for her to reach, and she puffs her cheeks in irritation. It’s hilarious. Felix smiles, and she pretends to frown at him.

Dimitri watches all the while. Still looking like a broken machine.

“Oh! Before I go, Mercie asked me to remind you both about Dedue’s party,” Annette says. She has one foot over the threshold. “You’re both coming, right?”

The look in her eyes suggests it is not a question.

“Yeah, I guess,” Felix says. His eyes are on Annette’s feet. She is nearly outside. They are so close to being in the clear.

Annette brightens instantly. The look in her eyes fades. 

“Great!” she cheers. “Remember, it’s a surprise, so  _ don’t tell him.”  _ Then, she points at Felix, which — okay, then. “Don’t tell him, Felix! Mercie might kill you if you do.”

“I’m not scared of Mercedes,” Felix scoffs.

“Mmhmm,” Annette nods, sagely. There is a smirk there, somewhere, and Felix puffs up. He isn’t scared of Mercedes — why would he be? She is the gentlest person he knows. She’s a  _ doctor,  _ for fuck’s sake —

Suddenly, Felix remembers the rolling pin. 

Annette smirks. He shuts up.

With a wave, Annette finally leaves. Felix waits until she’s disappeared entirely, before he sags in relief. He shuts the door, and turns to Dimitri.

Dimitri is grimacing at the floor, but when Felix turns, he holds up his arms with a hint of a smile.

The arms of his dressing gown are too loose, as is the rest of it. Somehow, this little fact slows Felix’s rapid breathing quicker than watching Annette leave did.

He sighs.

They don’t have a plan of any sort, and the frenzied past hours have just proven that. And when he looks at Dimitri, he sees that exact same thought mirrored in the lines of his expression.

* * *

One of the first concrete facts Dimitri learns is that the continent his counterpart rules is called United Fódlan. The capital of it is called Fhirdiad, which is where he is right now, although there are talks of the capital being moved in order to signify the unification of the three older territories. 

Privately, Dimitri wonders how the king deals with the pressure. He tries to imagine himself doing so, recalls how he could barely cope with university through the numerous breakdowns, and stops thinking about it entirely.

By now, Dimitri has learned to navigate parts of the castle without too much hassle. He avoids the Great Hall as much as he possibly can, but aside from that, the kitchens, the servants’ quarters, the gardens and the dungeons are places he has seen, on his awkward, whistle-stop tour with Dedue. It is tiring, but he is learning.

Funnily enough, the castle’s architecture is not as fascinating as Dimitri thought it to be at first glance. It is a sturdy building, but the spires and slopes are dreary. They are dull and grey, the only pop of colour being the blue flags flying from the masts. Dimitri has seen better decorated castles on school trips when he was younger.

Someone like Ignatz would appreciate seeing this far more than Dimitri would. Dimitri only knows of him by association, but he knows that the man loves interesting architecture, and the history behind it.

Dimitri stops in the corridor. His mind turns to thoughts of home, again. Not that he hasn’t been thinking of home near constantly for the past few days, but... 

Dimitri wonders if Annette is performing at a gig right now. If Mercedes is working a shift at the hospital, and if Dedue is at his restaurant, or at the shelter he volunteers at. He wonders if Ashe has finished his teaching course, like he was supposed to this month. If Ingrid and Sylvain are worrying for him. Hopefully not — he would never want them to.

He wonders, briefly, whether Felix is alright. Whether he had woken to an empty apartment and called someone, or whether he had dismissed it. That is... probably not the case, judging by his reaction the last time Dimitri had disappeared from the apartment. He had been  _ furious. _

Dimitri groans. He hopes,  _ really  _ hopes, that there is a Dimitri there to replace him, like the others are saying — even if it only for a little while. He hopes that Felix is not worrying himself out of his mind, because if there is one thing he can do, it is —

“Your Majesty.”

Felix is standing at the end of the corridor. This world’s Felix, anyhow. 

He is scowling — an expression Dimitri has begun to label as Felix’s _ default _ — and is dressed in the clothes Dimitri had seen him when he first woke up, although with none of the same softness in his expression

Absently, Dimitri touches his cheek. He touches his forehead, too, where this Felix had… kissed him, before. When he compares that moment to the anger emanating from the man in front of him, it seems certain that he must have imagined the entire thing.

Felix strides towards him. He is still scowling, and there is purpose in his steps. Dimitri almost takes a step back, but catches himself just in time. He meets Felix’s steely glare with a neutral one of his own.

“Your hands,” Felix snaps. “Don’t put them near your face.”

Startled, Dimitri does as he asks. He gives Felix an affronted look for good measure.

“Is there something wrong with my hands?”

Felix grits his teeth. Dimitri kept his tone mild, yet it seems to anger him even more.

“If you’re trying to be the king,” Felix snaps. “then you should act as one.”

With that ominous line, he turns on his heel and stalks off. Dimitri shakes his head, bewildered, before he follows him in a rush.

  
  
  
  
  


Thus, Dimitri spends his first day as king (or more accurately, as acting king?) in the stables.

To his surprise, not many people bother him. Dimitri had composed himself before walking out to the stables, preparing to be bombarded with nobles or courtiers or messengers and the like, but instead, he is left alone. Only the stablehands really converse with him, and that is only in passing, when they hand him the reins.

It is eerie, but Dimitri prefers this to the alternative. And more importantly, he is  _ delighted _ by the horses. 

These horses, Dimitri learns, are  _ fluffy.  _ They have long ears and furry manes, and touching them feels like a mix between a cat’s fur and sheep’s wool. He can’t help but grin as he brushes them, and it is a task that keeps him busy for hours.

It reminds him almost of his childhood riding lessons.

“These horses are well-looked after,” Dimitri beams. He fiddles with one unruly strand of mane, and the horse snorts. A group of maids titter as they walk past, although Dimitri doesn’t look to see why. “They are beautiful.”

Besides him, Felix snorts, derisive.

At least he has managed to rearrange his face into one that resembles something other than  _ murderous _ . Small mercies.

“What is her name?” Dimitri continues, ignoring the unpleasant aura Felix is somehow exuding in his direction. He really has no idea how he does it, but it is difficult to look at without wanting to turn away. Instead, Dimitri picks apart the oiled locks, and the horse turns her head.

Felix stares at the mane. His lips are pursed, as if he badly wants to throw an insult.

“... Luna,” he says, eventually.

“Luna,” Dimitri echoes. Luna snorts, and his mouth twitches into the beginnings of a smile. “She is lovely.”

Luna. It is a beautiful name for a beautiful horse. Brushing her and pretending to be familiar with her is relatively easy, but everything else?

Dimitri is sick (or pretending to be) but in a few days, he will supposedly be attending a council meeting. A meeting he has no idea how to conduct. Felix informed him about it before they came to the stables, and never said another word about it, despite Dimitri’s questions.

There are so many new people to remember, too. Dedue will apparently give him a rundown this evening, but Dimitri’s memory is not known for being the most sound.

It is aggravating. Stressful, because Dimitri does not want to think about what will happen if he slips up.

Slowly, Dimitri pets Luna. The motions are rhythmic, but do nothing for his racing thoughts. He has no plan. No plan at all, and yet the others have come to the agreement that their king must have swapped places with him, for reasons he is not privy to. It may be something else, but he was not given any other explanation before Annette disappeared in a hurry, along with Mercedes.

Dimitri sighs. His hands come to a stop, and he already feels tired again.

There is a movement towards his left. Dimitri looks up.

For a moment, for one split second, he catches sight of Felix looking at him. Dimitri nearly startles, because for once, Felix is not looking at him like he wants to kill him. His face is marginally softer.

Felix rearranges it back into the usual scowl the moment he catches Dimitri staring.

“What are you looking at?” he mutters. There are still people around them, so he is careful to keep his voice to a whisper. To the other stablehands who watch them at a distance, Felix appears to be talking to his king, if a bit sternly. To Dimitri, he is downright hostile.

Dimitri sighs. Felix is so… volatile. One moment he looks hateful, and the other, he looks — distant. Longing. 

Dimitri cannot make any sense of it. And until he does, Felix’s hostility will wear him down to the bone if he is not careful.

He shakes his head in answer, before returning to petting Luna, left to wonder about the mystery of the relationship between the king and duke in silence. 

Dimitri isn’t left alone to wonder for long. A few minutes later, he feels something gently tug on the sleeves of his tunic. When he looks down, he finds that somehow, a crowd of children have crept up on him without his even knowing.

Dimitri flushes, and nearly drops the brush. The children are staring at him, wide-eyed, with a mixture of glee and awe.

“The King is here!” they cheer, and Dimitri has no idea what to say.

The children are adorable. They are wearing blue — Blaiddyd blue, he reminds himself, even if it is still strange to hear his last name used so formally. Their eyes are bright, and their grins are wide, but most importantly — and most worryingly — they look  _ expectant. _

“Hello,” Dimitri says, smiling awkwardly down at them. They light up as soon as he greets them, each trying to jostle their way to the front of the group. It makes them look like a swarm of little bugs. 

_ These are children, _ he reminds himself. Children should not be difficult to fool.

Slowly, he relaxes.

“Can you teach us now?” a boy begs. He has big green eyes and an impressive pout. Dimitri raises his eyebrows, and a girl frantically nudges him in the side.

The boy straightens. Quickly, he adds, “Please?”

_ Teach? _

Dimitri bends down, and looks them in the eye. “What will I be teaching you?”

The smile in his voice is natural. He has always liked children.

… Even if he is not very good at fooling them, it seems. 

The boy pouts, again. He looks almost teary, now, and Dimitri hopes he is not really upset. “You forgot!” the boy accuses, adorably pitiful. 

Dimitri chuckles, mirthful. In his head, alarm bells are ringing. What is he supposed to be teaching?

“Of course not,” he reassures. He flicks his gaze over to Felix, quickly, and tries to convey a telepathic plea for help. “How could I ever forget?”

Felix stares back. His arms are still folded, and he is a ways off. For one moment, Dimitri thinks he will ignore him again.

Then, Felix unfurls his arms. He swings one hand down, in a pointed motion. Hands gripping an invisible hilt.

Ah.

“Come on, then!” someone shouts. They start cheering, as tiny hands grab at his cloak and pull him, with the extraordinary strength only very little children possess, to the weapons rack.

These are dulled weapons they’ve dragged him to. Wooden, and they couldn’t hurt a fly. They are just sticks, really, with some shape to them. 

Beyond that, though, a display shows off the fancier weapons. Silver lances, spears, swords, and even a ball on a chain are all stacked inside. They are shiny, and clearly well-used.

Dimitri’s heart sinks. 

“Stop  _ pulling  _ him, he’s the King — “

“Yeah, stop it! You’re taking up all the  _ space,  _ you always leave me out — !“

The children keep bickering, equal parts excited and boisterous. They are waiting for him to choose a weapon. Yet Dimitri can only stare.

He swallows. The children keep chattering, and slowly, he lifts a wooden lance off the rack, handling it like it were porcelain.

What is he  _ doing?  _

He picks the corner of the training yard, and shuffles to the side, hopefully where no one can see. This will be fine. He just has to swing a sword down. Nevermind that he has never done so in his life, and the children are looking at him as if he is an accomplished warrior.

Dimitri exhales. Steadies himself, and chances a quick glance at the door to see if he can escape — but no. It is barred shut.

Where is Felix?

“Come to the middle!” one of the children yells. “So we can see you better!”

Well. 

Dimitri doesn’t complain as he is well and truly dragged to the middle. He wonders, briefly, whether the king is usually treated like this, but judging by the lack of reaction from the surrounding knights, it must not be an issue. As it is, the children tug him away — to their immense joy, and to his quiet pain.

The grounds have quietened considerably. The knights on guard have turned to watch, awe written plainly across their faces, and the stablehands’ movements have noticeably slowed. Their reverence makes Dimitri begin to feel more and more like an imposter. Which he technically  _ is,  _ but considering his act… well. He can’t afford to show shock.

The children form a semicircular shape around him, a few metres away. They are giggling and shushing each other, and they are smiling so widely.

The lance is still held loosely in his grip. If he doesn’t do something, Dimitri has a very good idea of how this will turn out.

“I — “ he starts. His voice falters, embarrassingly. He drops the lance, and turns away. “One moment, please.”

The children are silent, now. Expectant. So are the knights, and Dimitri is beginning to panic.

He circles around. The world tilts, and for one terrible moment, Felix is nowhere to be found. Dimitri is scanning the surroundings, eye flitting about desperately, because if Felix is not there, then —

There.

Felix is watching him. Still frowning, but the familiarity of it calms Dimitri instantly. Felix narrows his eyes, and Dimitri shakes his head.

For a moment, he thinks that Felix doesn’t understand. His arms are still crossed, and he doesn’t move. Dimitri shakes his head again, more desperately this time.

Felix only watches, utterly still.

Dimitri closes his eye. So that is how he will be.

There is nothing for him there. Of course.

He turns to the children. His palms are suddenly sweaty under the gloves, but they are unaware of his growing panic. The children are still grinning. Still hopeful.

This could end terribly. In all honesty, it probably will, but — he can’t see any other choice.

Dimitri adjusts his grip. He hefts the lance forward, and widens his stance. As if he is playing  _ golf _ _ — _ __

— and now, there is a hand at the lance.

He smiles.

“Your grip is terrible,” Felix tells him, out of the corner of his mouth. He still looks annoyed, but Dimitri is too busy grinning at him.

Then, Felix turns to address the children. His expressions is severe, but not unkind. “The King is ill. He can’t train with you.”

The children’s faces fall. “Really?” they ask, morose.

Their faces are so  _ sad.  _ Dimitri’s relief is still palpable, but slowly, the guilt starts to creep in, too. But — if  _ he  _ can’t be the one to teach them…

Dimitri turns to the children, and smiles.

“I am sorry,” he tells them. He keeps his face perfectly neutral. “I am not well today. But I am certain that the Duke Fraldarius is available to teach you.”

Felix stiffens so quickly it is comical. Oblivious and excited, the children all nod, and burst into an enthusiastic chorus. Their eager eyes are trained solely on Felix, as if Dimitri isn’t even there anymore.

It is endearing.

“The Duke Fraldarius!” a girl shouts, bobbing up and down so frantically that her pigtails slap the boy next to her.

When Felix turns to him, fury blotched across his face, Dimitri does nothing but laugh. Felix looks as if he means to escape, but the children are already clapping for him. There is nothing he can do.

Dimitri smiles, and winks along. He tilts his head towards the children in a question, and Felix, very slowly, mouths: “I am going to kill you.”

“Please try,” Dimitri tells him, perfectly serious. Felix looks as if he wants to stamp his foot.

He manages to restrain himself, apparently. Dimitri smiles again as he angrily stalks away to grab a sword from the rack. 

When Felix finally beckons a child over, the entire gaggle of children follow, babbling like a crowd of ducks. The knights are watching, too, amusement plain on their faces. Their standoffish Duke playing with children must be a rare sight, after all. 

Dimitri takes a seat on the side, and watches Felix teach. As the lesson progresses, Felix’s stiffness gradually melts away into something more relaxed. His shoulders loosen, and his voice goes from grating to low and stern commands, even though he adjusts the children’s grips in a purely gentle manner. 

Eventually, Felix even smiles. Dimitri has never seen it directed towards him since that fateful morning, and he thinks it looks as fleeting as a bird. 

It is sweet, really. The sight leads his mind on a winding path, ending at thoughts about his own Felix own. How different he is, with his shorter, choppier hair, and the tattoo at his hip. His piercings, too; how he loves adorning his ears with the flashier earrings Dimitri sometimes buys for him. How gentle his own Felix is when he instructs his fencing class, even if he says he hates doing it. Just like the Duke Fraldarius in front of him.

It is sweet, yet strange. The two of them are so familiar, yet so different. Dimitri cannot fathom it. He wonders if there are other things he does not know about his own Felix — things that he might see mirrored in this world, only to recognise it if he is able to return.

_ When  _ he is able to return. No use in being so pessimistic, after all.

The Duke shouts a command. The children scramble to copy him, and Dimitri is left to watch.


	6. pudding's evil cousin

_ 14th of the Verdant Rain Moon, 1187 _

“This is a joke,” Dimitri says, flatly.

Annette crosses her arms. “Nope,” she says, cheerful.

“Please. You must be joking.”

“I don’t see what’s so bad!” 

There is no way Annette cannot be joking.

Frantically, Dimitri gestures to the chamberpot. It is just a  _ pot,  _ that someone will have to enter his room to empty for him. Empty in some unknown place that Dimitri does not want to think about, because he knows for certain that there is no proper sewage system here.

Annette shrugs, as if to say that there is no point complaining. Dimitri gets the hint.

He presses a hand to his mouth. “All right,” he says, faintly. 

It is not all right, not at all, but Annette is staring at him expectantly. Her gaze is still cheerful, yet piercing, and Dimitri is reminded that he cannot leave the room without her.

His house arrest. Of course. 

Dimitri fumbles. “Do you have — anything to — “

He winces. This is awkward enough, but somehow, looking at Annette in clothes fit for a noblewoman, it becomes even more awkward. Ungentlemanly. “Any sort of — how do I put this… cleaning materials?”

Annette stares. Then brightens. “You mean moss?”

Dimitri groans.

  
  
  
  


Slowly, so incredibly slowly, Annette becomes one of his better companions in this world. This is unsurprising, because it is Annette, but Dimitri is grateful to have  _ any  _ kind of support. Especially after the others’ hostility.

She is still suspicious of him, of course. She always keeps some distance away, and stealthily hides her magic books whenever he so much as passes by. (It has been a few days, but he is _ still _ marvelling over her magic. It really is incredible.)

However, Annette is one of the only ones who is beginning to see him as a person, rather than as the-imposter-of-the-king, or as Dimitri-but-not-Dimitri. Even though he is hurt by her wariness, Dimitri is grateful for this, at least. He doesn’t think he can handle Annette shunning him, as well as Dedue.

He had become more grateful to her, too, when she had found him shaking and dizzy in his room a few days ago.

“What’s wrong?” she had asked. Her voice was concerned, her hand hovering over his shoulder.

Dimitri stayed silent at the time. He did not know how to explain the way his head was spinning — _ had  _ been spinning, ever since he came here. Roaring, like he was under the crest of a wave, without any of the aesthetics to go along with it. Only the suffocating feeling of drowning in his own head,

“Is it your head?”

_ Bless Annette,  _ Dimitri thought. He nodded, shakily, and Annette had got up. Had pulled the curtains shut, and tiptoed out of the room.

“Wait here.”

She left, and Dimitri’s head continued to spin until she returned with some tea. She thrust the steaming cup into his hands, and waited before he wrapped his hands around it before she flopped into the armchair.

The cup was hot. Dimitri remembers feeling grateful for the way it almost burned his palms. It was a welcome distraction from the pain.

Annette waited until he downed a mouthful, before she began to speak.

“It’s the same tea His Majesty drinks,” she explained. “... It might help.”

The tea itself didn’t really do anything for his headache, but it did warm his mouth, at the very least. 

“Thank you,” Dimitri said.

Annette only stared at him.

“... It’s nothing.”

Annette was still staring at him when they lapsed into silence, but something however small, must have thawed between them, because from then on, she had started to warm to him. They are not at the same level of closeness as Dimitri is with Annette back home, but it is something, at least.

Dimitri has no idea why she became kinder to him much quicker than the others. If he could hazard a guess, he would say it was because she is naturally a compassionate woman. Especially towards the weak and vulnerable.

“Don’t forget you have a meeting with the council today,” Annette reminds him, as they walk down the corridor. The castle is still asleep, and there are only a handful of serving boys and stablehands scuttling along the corridors at this time in the morning. “Felix and Sylvain will be there to help you out, so you should be fine.” 

He winces. Sylvain... 

Dimitri has not seen Sylvain since that day in the cell. He gets the impression that Sylvain is purposefully staying out of his way. Sylvain’s silence is cold, like the draught of an open door in the winter, whereas Ingrid’s silence is bold and angry. Dimitri is not sure which is worse.

And that meeting… he has no idea how he will pretend to do anything in front of a council, let alone conduct it. What on earth are they thinking?

He pushes that problem aside for later.

“Right,” Dimitri sighs. “Thank you, Annette.”

“Are you feeling better?”

Dimitri considers it. “Somewhat,” he lies. His head actually feels like a beating drum, but there is little he can do about it, so it is nothing worth hassling Annette over.

Annette stops. For a moment, she is silent, but eventually she turns to him.

“Dedue brewed it for you,” she blurts out. Then, she drops her voice to a whisper. “The tea, I mean. He usually brews it for His Majesty’s headaches, too. If you need any more, just ask him.”

When she finishes speaking, she immediately looks away. Dimitri only smiles, as a rush of warmth floods his chest. It seems that Annette’s kindness is an unfailing constant. 

“Thank you,” he says. He hopes his voice is sincere enough to show how grateful he really is. Annette gives him a tiny smile in return, so it must have worked.

“Annette.”

The voice is cutting, and it screeches them to a halt. 

Felix is at the end of the corridor, his long hair swinging in a heavy ponytail down his back. For once, he is not sporting his trademark scowl — only wearing a displeased downturn to his mouth — but it is clearly not for Dimitri’s benefit.

“Felix!” Annette calls. She is beaming, and Felix’s frost expression thaws when he looks at her. They embrace, brief but affectionate, and Dimitri suddenly feels isolated. A familiar feeling gnaws at his gut.

“What are you doing here?” Felix asks her, when they separate. “I thought you were heading back to the School.”

Annette sighs. “I’ve asked for a leave of absence,” she admits. “Just a temporary one, until this all blows over. I don’t think I’d get any work done if I went back now. My classes don’t need their professor being all jittery like this, especially not so close to the celebrations.” She claps her hands. “Besides! If I hand my classes over to my assistant for a while, maybe he’ll stop complaining about having no work to do all day…”

She looks devious, in a sweet way. Dimitri hides his smile behind his hand. Felix doesn’t bother; there is a fond grin stretching his lips, as he listens to Annette and ignores Dimitri entirely.

Admittedly, it stings.

“Well, it’s good to know you’re keeping busy,” Felix tells her, before he finally turns to Dimitri. 

His face turns stony. Dimitri braces himself.

“You,” Felix says, coldly. There is no one in the corridor witnessing this altercation. Dimitri assumes that this is why he is being so openly cold. “Come with me.”

Dimitri sighs. Annette throws the two of them an anxious look, but doesn’t say a word as he follows Felix into his chambers. 

Felix’s room is surprisingly messy. His Felix’s room back home was minimalist at best, and sparse at worst. He would throw out anything he didn’t need — anything of sentimental value, essentially — claiming that it took up too much space. In one notable moment, he had huffed and pointed at the old teddy bear that was collecting dust under Dimitri’s bed, declaring that they should throw it out. 

(It is a perfectly good teddy bear, and Dimitri still stands by the idea that it should stay in his room, even if it constantly rolls off his bed.)

This Felix, however, has parchment strewn all over the place. Inkwells are left open on his desk, drying up, and the rug under Dimitri’s feet is skewed. The bedsheets are rumpled, and his pillow is crooked. 

The place is lived in, certainly. It is still strange to see Felix’s space being anything other than stripped down to its bare necessities.

Dimitri blinks. Felix has grabbed a stack of sheets, and is thrusting it at Dimitri’s chest.

“Read these,” he snaps. 

Carefully, Dimitri peels away the parchment from his front. “What are they?”

“I’ve compiled all matters discussed with the council for the past year into short summaries, so you don’t make too much of a fool of yourself this evening,” Felix says. He sits down, and Dimitri has no time to feel properly disgruntled, because Felix is already pushing the stack of sheets closer to him. Already impatient. “As a cautionary measure, we’re going to say that you’re ill, but if they ask you something, you’ll need to know how to answer it.”

“I’m going to be ill?” Dimitri asks. 

He keeps his tone purposefully light, but Felix shoots him a glare. Dimitri stops smiling, then. and starts to read. 

In all honesty, the reports are utterly boring. Dimitri reads and rereads the papers, trying to memorise cities and towns and duchies and lists of different projects until his eye is swimming. The last time he read so much within such a short space of time must have been during university. Either way, his head still swims.

Once Felix realises he has been reading the same sentence for the past five minutes, the papers are snatched away, and he is given things to sign instead. Felix is scribbling away, brows furrowed, but Dimitri is left meticulously copying the same signature again and again. The candles burn to a stump, and his eye hurts. Part of him wishes that he was given Felix’s work. At least it would have been stimulating.

Soon enough, even the signing becomes too much. Dimitri lays down his quill, and sneaks a glance at Felix. Felix has not noticed him. His quill is scrawling along the parchment, though he is careful not to smudge his writing, and his nose crinkles. His lips are pursed intently.

It is all very familiar. 

Dimitri picks up his quill. He sighs, then, and gets back to work.

  
  
  
  
  


When he finally finishes, hours later, he finds that Felix’s stack of papers still towers over the man himself.

“Do you need any help with that?” Dimitri asks.

Felix grunts. “You wouldn’t know what to do,” he mutters, before he returns to his parchment.

Well. 

Dimitri chances a glance at his inkwell. His own fingers are stained all over with black splodges of the liquid, whereas Felix’s own are fairly clean. He shivers, too, when the wind rattles the windowpane. Felix’s room is drafty, the fireplace unlit, and Dimitri wishes he had pens and a coat.

“Are you  _ sure  _ you don’t need anything?”

_ “No,”  _ Felix snaps. He doesn’t look up. “Just sit there and wait.”

Dimitri sighs, deeply.

“I still don’t understand why you are so short with me,” he starts. “Surely you aren’t like this with the — other me?”

Felix stiffens. He says nothing, but the next scrawl of his quill across the page is notably more vicious. Dimitri tenses.

“... Do you know what you’re wearing this evening?” Felix grits out.

Dimitri shakes his head. Felix sighs, irritable, and the chair scrapes as he rises from his seat.

“Come on,” he says, curtly. He heads for the door, papers still a mess on the desk, and doesn’t bother to check if Dimitri is following.

  
  
  
  


Hours later, when the fitting is finished, Dimitri treks back to Felix’s room. 

He is tired. So, so tired of being accosted at every opportunity from every direction, and having to plaster on the same facade of illness every time. He finds it iconic, really, that for once, he is not pretending to be well, but the opposite. Felix would scowl at him if he knew.

Dimitri is tired, too, after being wrangled into clothes which are too tight. It seems that the king is not as bulky as him. The realisation had made Dimitri wince, and awkwardly tug the fabric down. It had also made Felix’s face tighten.

Felix had sent him away after that. So he is waiting in Felix’s room, now, for Felix to return, so that they can go to the meeting together. Dimitri would probably get lost if he went alone.

Felix’s desk is still littered with stray parchment. His bed is still unmade, the corner of the blanket touching the floor with the way it droops off the frame. Dimitri is sat in his armchair, twiddling his thumbs, so it is with little thought that he decides he may as well tidy the place a little.

Just a little. He is sure that Felix may actually kill him if he goes too far. But Felix is so busy, and who knows… this act of kindness might even warm Felix to him. Maybe. Perhaps he ought to don a mask with Annette’s face on it, just to be sure.

Dimitri smiles at the thought. However, as he picks up the first paper, it quickly becomes apparent that it is not work related.

There is no mistake. None of these are reports. Upon closer inspection it is clear that they are actually all letters, dated from the past few days, and suddenly, the paper he is holding feels as if it is burning through his skin.

_ Dear Felix,  _ it reads, and Dimitri feels like he is intruding, but his  _ name _ is there.  _ His name.  _

_ Dear Felix, _

_ I’m packing my bags right away. You didn’t give much away in your letter, so I’m taking enough with me for a month, just in case. Don’t forget to meet me at the gates, because there’s no way I’m hauling all this stuff up to the castle myself. _

_ Don’t worry. I’m sure he’s okay. He’s stronger than he looks. _

_ Lysithea _

Lysithea… Dimitri knows her only by association. She was Annette’s classmate, and he has heard that she is a hard worker, years ahead in her studies, and incredibly driven. However, Felix never spoke of her. Do they even know of each other, back home?

Another letter:

_ Dear Felix, _

_ I’m at Galatea, and I’ve managed to drag Linhardt along with me, too. I’m looking into possible explanations for the symptoms you wrote me about, but I have a feeling that this might take a little more digging. Linhardt’s researched into this field, anyway, so he would be useful. Even if he complains the entire time we’re on horseback. And besides, he owes me a favour, so there’s no way he can refuse this time. _

_ If Annette’s with you, tell her to start her research in books from the third wing. She’ll know which ones they are. _

_ See you soon, _

_ Lysithea _

_ P.S.  _ Don’t worry.  _ I’m sure he’s fine. Positive. _

Is Lysithea a researcher? Or a scholar, perhaps? She is telling Felix not to worry so casually, so Dimitri assumes that they must be friends, at the very least. How strange. 

_ ‘Don’t worry’.  _ Dimitri frowns. He thinks about the twist of Felix’s mouth, and how his brows are constantly furrowed. The black rings under his eyes, too, and the dryness of his skin. 

He feels a stab of guilt. For all Felix knows, his king and friend — or something else? Something more?—has disappeared into thin air, only to be replaced by a double. A double that endlessly angers him, for whatever reason. And the same is probably true on the other end.

His Felix… Dimitri wonders how he is holding up. He wonders if he is shoving his worry under a mask of hostility, or if he is panicking, or something worse.

His grip tightens. The letter threatens to tear, and Dimitri has to force himself to calm down before he can continue. 

The last letter is creased, and curled at the edges. It has been opened and closed many times, it seems.

Just as Dimitri attempts to smooth it out, the floorboard outside gives a sudden creak. Dimitri fumbles, and tosses the papers haphazardly on the desk. He manages to scramble to the bed just in time for Felix to fling the door open.

Felix is dressed in black today, with gold accents. His hair is neatly combed, falling straight down his back. It is tied half-up, and Dimitri notices, heart pounding, that he has no piercings. Another way he differs to his own Felix, then. 

“Are you ready?” Felix asks, testily.

Dimitri jerks a nod, breathing still ragged, and rises to his feet.

  
  
  
  


The room is bustling with activity when they enter. Dimitri takes in the scene with the stateliest expression he can muster, all the while familiarising himself with the people in front of him.

It seems that he and Felix are the last people to arrive, because the council are all seated already. Some of them are shuffling with their papers, and some are conversing with each other, glasses in hands. There is an old, short man twirling his moustache on the far end of the table. A narrow-lipped woman with elegant hands poised opposite him. Some of the members have taken to staring out of the window, waiting for the meeting to start.

Dimitri will have to act well, if he is to pretend to have known these people for years.

“Presenting His Majesty the King!”

As Dimitri sweeps in, Felix by his side, they all immediately rise to their feet. They look at him with hushed respect, yet Dimitri only feels awkward and unsure. 

He has never been a good actor. And whether this meeting succeeds or falls to ashes rests entirely on him and his acting. If someone were to ask him about some policy or other and he fails to respond accordingly…. 

Dimitri tries to ignore the possibility. Instead, he tilts his head, and takes his seat at the head of the table. Felix sits at his right, and it is only then that everyone else sits down.

Felix clears his throat. “His Majesty is unwell today,” he begins, brusque. “I will be leading the discussions instead.”

Dimitri watches as one man visibly slumps in his chair. He suppresses a snigger, before fixing his expression into a more neutral one.

“Thank you, Duke Fraldarius,” Dimitri says. Felix gives him no indication he heard, and continues with a flourish.

“We’ll begin where we left off,” Felix declares. He straightens, adopting a formal posture, before turning to the man on his left. “Baron Rowan. Have you made up your mind since the last meeting?”

The Baron is a portly man, with a huge, walrus-like moustache. He clears his throat and shuffles his papers before he speaks.

“Your Grace,” he begins. From the booming tone of his voice, Dimitri gets the distinct impression that he is as pompous as they come. Like that one talking clock from Beauty and the Beast. 

“Your Majesty.” The Baron nods to Dimitri. He clears his throat. “Upon reflection, I have decided that your proposals are sound. I have no qualms with the rediversion of water routes.”

Now he looks up. His face is carefully measured. “However, if I may… would it not be more prudent to begin the project somewhat later? In a few more moons, perhaps, considering the preparations for Unification Day and the celebrations afterwards are already underway? As you know, our resources are running thin, and while it pains me to say it, I believe that unless we receive monetary aid, the construction works will displace more families than not.”

The people break out into murmurs. Dimitri keeps his face impassive all the same, while Felix’s mouth twitches. For once, Dimitri is glad he is with him, because these new concerns Baron were either omitted on the briefings, or were simply never brought up beforehand.

“Is that a yes or a no?” Felix asks, testily. His voice cuts clearly over the noise, and the people silence. However, before the Baron can answer, the long-nosed woman cuts in.

“Baron Rowan,” she snaps. Her voice is nasally and high, and she is clearly fuming. “This is the third time you have tried to delay the project. You were the one who demanded a rewrite of the original plan in the first place. And every time you attempt to push back the date, you  _ ever  _ so humbly request monetary aid from the Crown. Is there a reason behind this? An ulterior motive, perhaps?”

The Baron sputters. The mutterings rise again, and Dimitri wonders if he should speak — this is all turning south so quickly — but the Baron is already turning his indignation onto the Countess. Suddenly, it is as if Dimitri is not even there. 

“Preposterous! You are seeing things that are not there,” he snaps. He wipes his face, damp with sweat, with a handkerchief. Dimitri’s ears are ringing. “If I may, Your Grace, the Countess’ accusations are unfair. She brings with her the same problems for every meeting — ” 

The Countess looks as if she means to stand up at any moment. “Accusations?” she snarls. A councilwoman next to her winces at the volume. “How dare you! How dare you speak of  _ accusations,  _ when all you have been doing is — “

_ “Enough.” _

Felix’s voice is not especially loud. In all honesty, it barely carries over the ruckus.

But it is low, commanding, and as Felix flicks his hair over his shoulder and stares down both the Countess and Baron, Dimitri can’t help but think that he wields his authority well.

“You’re wasting everyone’s time. If the only discussion you two can hold is an argument, then take it outside the room.”

His tone is frigid. The two offenders stare at him, frozen, before they slowly slink back into their seats. The room is only silent as Dimitri watches on, and marvels at the power Felix has over these people.

It is astonishing. Astounding, really, that Felix would take up a position like this - in statecraft, overseeing council meetings which drag on and are rife with frustration, when Dimitri has never known Felix to be a person tethered to the office chair. But then again, this is a different Felix to the one he knows.

“My sincere apologies, Your Grace,” the Baron says, thoroughly chastised. “I will ensure that it never happens again.”

“See to it.” Felix says. “Continue.”

The Baron does. The Countess, too, keeps her peace and stays silent, although the nasty glare remains on her face. The rest of the council stay attentive, and the meeting continues.

Soon, the Baron’s voice slips into a monotonous drone. It takes all of Dimitri’s willpower not to slouch, and maintain the vague grimace that Felix had drilled into him. He is trying to look ill, but not too ill to cause concern. Mildly sick, but not  _ weak,  _ as a king could not afford to display such weakness. It is sad, Dimitri thinks, that even the king’s sickness is controlled by his duty.

The meeting drags on. Nothing of note occurs after the initial outburst between the Baron and the Countess, most likely due to Felix’s presence, but it is still boring. An entire half hour passes before the second person starts to speak, and there is nothing for Dimitri to  _ do,  _ except to sit in this seat, and look strong, yet also ill and weak. 

Dimitri tries to smile, but smiling about impoverished villagers is difficult. He tries to maintain a neutral face, but quickly it slips into a downturn of the mouth. By now, he is sure that the boredom is clear on his face, yet he still can’t leave. He is masquerading as the  _ King. _ Where would he go?

No wonder Felix looked so grumpy before he entered. Dimitri cannot blame him, if this is how stuffy his meetings are. Dismally, he realises that this may be the reality of his future, if he decides to take up his father’s mantle, and finally heads his old organisation.

… Perhaps he ought to rethink that line of thought.

“... and although there have been reports of a number of the cattle falling ill after their first reported consumption of the plant, personally, I believe that there is no reason to believe that it was solely the plant itself that caused their illness. Rather, it may be simply a case of the changes in their diet…”

Felix nods stiffly. Dimitri nods, too, and dips his head, as if he has been listening. He has absolutely no idea what they are talking about now.

“Thank you, Count.” Felix says, when the last man finishes speaking. Then, mercifully: “A break is in order. We will reconvene in ten minutes.”

A collective sigh goes around the room, and the instantaneous sound of people chattering to each other is like a dam breaking. Felix's chair scrapes as he pushes back from the table, and cracks his knuckles.

He looks at Dimitri — more of a side glance, really — and mutters out of the corner of his mouth. “Were you even listening?”

“Of course. Cattle, and all that,” Dimitri tells him, face perfectly neutral, and Felix rolls his eyes. It is almost imperceptible, but Dimitri knows the motion well. “By the way, Felix. I had no idea the council was this… rowdy.”

Felix scoffs. He reaches for his goblet, and for a moment, he looks truly exasperated, rather than just angry. “You’ve seen nothing yet.”

At that, Dimitri laughs. He giggles, too, when Felix  _ glares,  _ and hurriedly turns it into a sad imitation of a hiccup when some of the others swivel to stare at him. There is a servant at his ear, awkwardly holding a tray, but Dimitri is too elated to address him right away - because for once, Felix is not angry at him.

“My apologies,” Dimitri says, when he has finally stopped coughing. Felix is determinedly staring at the other wall. How helpful. “I drank too quickly.” A terrible excuse, but the servant seems to pay it no mind as Dimitri turns to him. “May I help you?”

“Your Majesty,” the servant says. He keeps his eyes low, and instantly the discomfort Dimitri was feeling earlier returns like a rush of air. “I have brought refreshments.”

Dimitri attempts a smile. “Thank you very much.” 

The servant takes his leave. Felix waits until the chatter is at a reasonable level again, before he turns to scowl at Dimitri. 

“Well done for gaining everyone’s attention,” he mutters.

“Would I not have their attention, anyway? I  _ am  _ pretending to be the king, you know.”

Felix’s face twists at his remark. Suddenly, Dimitri wishes he hadn’t opened his mouth.

“Well, you’re not. Stop being so foolish,” Felix snaps. He turns away, body facing the other direction, Dimitri is left to despair on his own. 

How stupid of him. He was gaining some ground, too, only to go and make Felix clam up again.

Soon, the members begin to shuffle in their seats again, expectant looks on their faces. Ten minutes must have passed already. Felix raises a hand, and they fall silent. The servant returns to pick up the tray — most of the contents untouched — and Dimitri smiles at him through the fatigue that has cropped up.

“Thank you,” he says. 

The servant smiles back. 

Then, he pulls a dagger from his tunic, and plunges it into Dimitri’s chest.

Dimitri only manages a pathetic “Oh,” before he starts to cough. The dagger is struck next to his heart, and when he tilts his head just so, he can see that it is driven so deep that only the hilt and a sliver of metal stick out. His skin begins to flare, terrible and contained at first, before it spreads like a raging fire across his skin. 

Someone screams. Dimitri tips to the side, crimson dribbling from his mouth.

“For the Empire!” the servant bellows. He looks deranged, demonic, his mouth open wide as he laughs, and laughs, and laughs. His shirt is spattered red. 

Suddenly, Felix is there. People are scrambling out of their seats, but Felix is there as quick as a sandstorm, wrestling the man to the floor. His eyes are blazing.

Felix becomes horizontal. Or perhaps that is only Dimitri, as he slides from the chair onto the floor, hacking and wheezing as his mouth fills with blood. Felix is still struggling with the servant, knees pressed into the small of his back as he slams his head onto the floor, again and again. 

The room turns grey around the edges. Felix becomes a blur. Dimitri writhes and writhes, until he finally slips under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and then, dimitri died. that's it. the end.
> 
> haha i'm joking of course.... i'd never kill him off! never. ;)
> 
> thank you for reading so far!! rest of the chapters will hopefully be going up soon ✨ i am on twitter at [honeybakedtea](https://twitter.com/honeybakedtea) come say hello!


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